It’s her fault that I’m here. She made me this way.
CHAPTER
THREE
Igasp awake, sitting straight up and clutching at my throat. Will I ever wake up any other way now? It doesn't seem likely. These dreams come nightly now, and even when they seem to start happy, they inevitably shift. In the way of dreams, my childhood home was plunked down here in the New Hampshire woods, and with Christmas approaching, is it any wonder that it's invaded my nightmares? My phone shows 6 a.m., and that means there's no way I'm getting back to sleep anytime soon.
My throat aches. Maybe I was screaming in my sleep, but I could swear it’s from where the man in my nightmares squeezed it. It’s irrational. It’s not true.
Right now, my brain doesn’t give a fuck.
“I am safe,” I croak. Someday I will say it enough to believe it.
The morning is the only time that I regret sleeping naked. My wood-stove can’t keep the morning chill away entirely, so I squeal as I run to my bathroom. My house is small, only four or five rooms depending on how you want to define it, but I'm proud of what I've done with the place, especially considering so much of the decorating happened after my mugging. I find the busier I am, the less I think about it, so Itry to avoid being idle. I take on more work than is probably healthy, and when I'm done with that, I come up with projects for myself to kill the time.
I used to read a lot, as evidenced by the heavy-laden bookshelves in my room, but lately it’s a struggle. The words blur together on the page. Or I get angry at the people in the books for having what I've given up—hope.
The work I've put into my house shows, but I'm not sure that my house actually reflects anything about me. Horizontal subway tiles in my bathroom shine prettily, contrasting nicely with the hexagon tiles on the floor. Their bright white color does help wake me up in the morning. But that doesn't make it “me.”
My house issocute. I’m proud of it. But it could be someone else’s house entirely.
“Computer, good morning,” I call to my local corporate spy, aka smart speaker.
“It’s December 6th. The weather today will be overcast with a high of 38 degrees. There are no local alerts.” Lofi music starts playing throughout my house, the kitchen and living room lights brightening. I have them set to ramp up slowly in case the light is bothering me that day.
“Time to fake awake,” I tell myself. My mom always used to say it when we got ready. I don’t wear as much makeup as she does—or really any, nowadays—unless I’m going to call my parents. Who am I going to impress? My pale skin looks a little dark beneath my eyes, which is no shock. I’m not even certain why I maintain my skincare routine anymore, but maybe it’s so I can trick myself into thinking that someday I’ll meet someone… somehow, in my living room. With a sigh, I hang my head and grab my serums. I may not be worried about “what you can see in my countenance” anymore like when I grew up religious, but some habits die hard.
After taking my morning vitamin cocktail, I pace back into my room to grab mysmartwatch. My packages should be arriving today with wrapping supplies, though I realize I didn’t order anything for myownpresents. I guess I’ll need to get on that later.
Checking all of my clients’ agendas for the day and ensuring no one needs changes comes first, however. I appreciate my house’s simple layout that allows me to immediately see when I exit my bedroom that I left my laptop unplugged all night on the couch.
The wood-stove glows with the last remnants of the fire. At some point in the night, Henry abandoned me in favor of the heat, because he’s fast asleep next to it. It has a functionality where I could convert it to a pellet stove to burn more efficiently, but I really don’t see why with the performance it already has. Plus, hauling wood is really my only source of exercise other than long rambling walks in my woods with Henry, so it would probably be bad for my health.
One side effect of working from home is that I’ve bought a laptop cord for every room of my house. The poor thing does alotof work, and the only time it gets to dock is when I work in my office, which is almost never.
Today, it’ll start its day in the kitchen with me while we both try to wake up. Someday I’ll remember I have a programmable coffee machine, but today is not that day. The smell of the coffee as I make a new pot begins the ritual of sensations that wake me up, so maybe I never will.
My nightmare hovers in the back of my mind, a shadow over the start of my day, but sadly, I’m used to it. I’ll be shocked if there ever comes a day when Idon’thave a nightmare. Even when I’m not having an active panic attack, my fears are ever-present.
While the coffee percolates, I boot up my computer and look through my clients’ schedules. Melissa is double booked later, so I send an email to reschedule one. Elizabeth has two back-to-back, in-person meetings, in locations that the internet tells me are fifteen minutes apart, so I email bothmeeting organizers for a call-in number and send her a quick message letting her know. I may not drive anymore… ever, but even I know that’s a stretch for her.
Maybe it’s strange that so much of what I do is managing for other people what I literally cannot do for myself. Most people hate meetings, but I honestly used to love them. I still love them, even if they are all now via video chat. I love seeing people. I’m actually quite social… but I’m also scared.
Someday, though. Someday I’ll go to an in-person meeting again. Hell, maybe someday I’ll go to one of Fae’s book release parties like she always asks me to…
By the time their calendars are sorted, I check mine to ensure I don’t have any client sync meetings. Thankfully, my schedule is free, so I’m able to work on tasks as I please. I migrate to the living room to drink my coffee and get down to brass tacks.
The hours fly by faster than I can track, and it’s around 10 a.m. that an alert on my phone pulls me out of a trip itinerary I was prepping. I blink down at my phone, because even though the number isn’t saved into my phone, it’s a number I know.
It’s mine.
Or at least it’s my old number. Since I ended the service, the person must have somehow gotten my new number to complain about calls they are getting looking for me. I get it, that’s annoying as shit, but you’re gonna have to deal with those bogus extended warranty calls on your own.
I open the message, and it’s nothing like I expect.
(603)555-3327: Why haven’t you put your lights up yet?
I stare at it.
