You’re awake. Focus, Gabriella. And yet, I can’t.
No matter what books I look into while awake. No matter what internet searches I perform, dating back to a time where each house held a crest that symbolized their status, I fail.
No amount of searching or digging provides answers to the questions destroying my mind like a horror-filled movie reel. No matter the days lost behind a screen or sitting cross-legged between shelves in the back corner of a library, stacks of books burying me within their information; I’ve done it all, but still come up blank.
“Pretty girl.”
Taking in another deep breath, I focus on the rise and fall of my chest while ignoring the male voice. I’m begging my lungs to cooperate and my mind to fight this suffocating hold those words have on me when spoken by the rich and gravelly tone. In and out. Slowly, Gabriella. However, my body feels as though a heavy weight sits atop my chest, slowly suffocating me.
I’m scared, but curious. Idiotically so.
“I am safe.” Christ, those three words are hard to say. Each one tastes of lies, and it’s a feeling I’m unable to shake.
Glancing at my bedside alarm, I grimace at the glaring numbers blaring across its screen: 3:15 a.m. Tonight I slept longer than the last five days, but there’s no relief for my tired form.
Months reliving this same dream.
Months fighting to shake off this gripping unease that makes no sense, and yet, I know my response holds merit. Something is wrong.
Another deep breath. Another twitch of my fingers as a soft breeze infiltrates the room, and I’m almost grateful for the distraction. Almost. Because next to the flowy white curtains moving over my half-opened window is a painting I’ve come to loathe even though I’m its creator.
However, today it snaps me back to the present with an invisible snap so hard I gasp.
It’s across the bed from me. The first thing I see each day when I open my eyes.
With each stroke of my brush, I added every last detail down to the shade of red split in half with a contrast portraying day and night. Moreover, the opulent decor is full of teasing mockery that pulls me in.
I study it each day after waking up. Cling to this obsession.
Because that’s what this is.
An obsession. A need. A compulsion I can’t control.
“Why are you haunting me?” No answer, not that I expect one. Instead, I let my eyes skim across the painting, and I do my customary intake of items, placements, and lastly the haunting shade. Yet this time, I don’t finish as I pause on a white piece of paper taped to the right bottom corner.
It’s small and folded, and my anxiety rises with its presence. The choppy breaths I’ve fought hard to calm are now a choking sound as air fails to enter my airways and a seductive scent makes its presence known.
It’s manly. Earthy. Nothing of mine smells like this, and I’m once again confused. “Am I still dreaming?”
Then there’s the note, and it’s never appeared in my nightly visits. Which leaves me asking myself how; it wasn’t there when I fell asleep after popping an over-the-counter sleeping aid. Furthermore, it causes my heart to palpitate with a speed that frightens me.
I’m shaking slightly, and the air in the room seems to have dropped to near freezing.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
The sight in front of me shifts in and out of focus, only coming back to attention when glass breaks in the hallway outside my bedroom door.
From one extreme to the other, I’m suddenly pushed into a manic fight or flight. I become a spectator—watching—while within a disconnected state of mind I scramble off the bed and open the bedside drawer to my left. My gun is there, loaded, and I don’t hesitate to pick it up and remove the safety.
The audible click seems loud inside the room, but the harsh breaths escaping my chest drown it out. “It’s nothing. Probably Mr. Pickles wandering around.”
As if on cue, my dog barks but it’s not outside my door. No, his small little warrior growl comes from down the hall inside my home studio where he likes to burrow in an oversized chair that I kept from my one year of college before quitting.
He yips and I’m rushing out the door, ignoring the broken shards I’m walking over. A few cut the soles of my feet, leaving behind a small trail of blood across my wooden floor as I run toward the sound of his fear.
It takes me seconds to enter the eclectic room, my eyes darting around every inch of space, and find nothing. No intruder. No monster.
Instead, I make out Mr. Pickles’s huddled form just beneath my easel and stool, paws covering his face while pitiful sounds escape his muzzle. He’s shivering—afraid—and my heart clenches at the sight.
Walking across the room, I pause just beside him, bending at the waist to pick up my all-black Frenchie after placing my gun down. His tiny body seeks out my comfort once within my arms, rubbing his face against my chest while I lay a tiny kiss between his ears.
“You okay, buddy?” His answer to my coo is a huffing/grunting sound that any other day would make me smile. Not today, though. I’m spooked; the remnants of my dream, the broken glass, and that note... “Lord, what is happening to me?”
Small dark eyes watch me with worry. Mr. Pickles is trying to convey something, but all I can do is hold him a little tighter and soothe him with light scratches at the nape of his furry neck. It takes him a few minutes to calm, for the shivering to stop, but eventually he does and my breaths now match his.
Quiet surrounds us, a stillness that both soothes and creates a false sense of safety I’m not quick to trust. I do, however, turn around and walk us out of the room, ignoring my bleeding soles while heading back toward my room.
The hall is dark, the only source of illumination coming from a night-light right beside an accent table near the center. Before I’d gone to bed, there was a lovely lamp I’d bought from a second-hand shop and a pictureless frame on the table. Both were made in India; vibrant colors, woods, and glass that stood out against the white backdrop of my walls. Two beautiful pieces that now lie broken, shattered beyond repair across the wooden floor.
“Did you do this?” I ask Mr. Pickles, but the cutie’s eyes are closed. “He must’ve bumped into it and got scared.”
It’s the only plausible explanation I’m willing to accept. Then why didn’t I hear him hit it? Why didn’t he yelp near my door?
Ignoring the sting of the crunching glass beneath my feet as another piece slices my flesh, I pause outside my bedroom door. The room is brighter now, no longer that low, dimmed light I keep on during my sleep hours because the thought of total darkness creeps me out.
No. Now, it’s lit up, and the pitter-patter of rain hitting the windowpane is loud. Eerie.
“Get yourself together and read the note. I probably hit the switch in my rush.” Maybe I also forgot and put it there myself. Maybe I’ve started sleepwalking, a possible side effect? “That has to be it, due to my irregular sleeping patterns and new when-needed medication.”
My low muttering doesn’t wake up the now passed-out Frenchie in my arms, and I place him down on my bed before walking toward the large painting. I can’t look away from the neatly folded note. I almost trip in my determined state to reach it, and when I do, a near knee-buckling sensation overthrows my senses when I read the message within, written in a perfect penmanship that is familiar yet foreign.