“Something is keeping you awake. Is it fear or regret?” / claire to becca
" I’m sorry... I didn't —" She clears her throat, loosening her death grip on plush, white blankets, two total. One to cover their bodies from the unknown while they sleep, and another to kick off in the middle of the night when she’s overheated—night sweats or the beginning of perimenopause? Take your pick.
“ I didn’t mean to wake you. “ She says softly, reaching for a cup of water, her hand trembling with each sip.
The white walls curved, the burdened chest breathes confused words. She stutters out the truth through a knotted tongue.
Bodies fall one by one like fleshy, boneless dominos, their faces blurry, out of focus—black sludge dribbling from their mouths. Coagulated. Hemorrhaging. Dead on arrival, or SOL, as Chris would say. She remembers pressing her fingers against their cold, moist skin, desperately searching for any signs of life. A pulse. A twitch. Last words.
The city was a graveyard before she could administer a single antidote.
“ Fear of it happening again, and regret that I couldn’t stop it from getting out of hand last time. ” An exhale. A breath that tastes sour on her tongue, burning her throat and esophagus. Heartburn, nausea, guilt, shame.
Each nightmare is more vivid than the last. Too real—she’s beginning to see their bodies when she’s awake. In the courtyard of their home, face down in the cherub fountain. A blink and they’re at the window, their sockets black and blank as a void, banging at the glass, begging her for answers.
'Why did you let this happen? How could you?'
She ponders the idea of switching meds. Perhaps a prescription to suppress REM sleep? Something to dull the memories… if only for a few hours.
Rebecca brushes a few strands from Claire’s face with a forced smile, hand cupping her warm, soft cheek. Good. She’s real. She’s breathing.
“ Do you need me to sleep in another bed for a little while? I don’t want you losing sleep, you know. ”
@squarecranks // MEME.
