It made no noise, but I grunted with effort, muscles seizing, causing my legs to cramp and my hands to stiffen.
My blood turned to boiling water, forcing all the sediment out, while making me feel like my skin had gone up in flames.
The heart beating in the far distance was coming quicker, much faster, panicked with the high of the fight.
That’s it, drummer boy, keep beating.
I could swim in that cave—take the beat out and save it from the rising tide. If I could only get to it—this thing was standing in my way.
I didn’t mean to kill it, not like it was trying to kill me; I just wanted to keep it under control.
In that way dreams have of changing from one scene to another, melting seamlessly without the mind even registering the difference or how I even got from one place to another, I was submerged in bright light.
Light so bright that my eyes narrowed against the glare.
She was there, my wife, in our bed.
It was her, but it wasn’t.
She was asleep, a peaceful look on her face. She was wrong somehow, though, so damn wrong.
The blood.
It saturated the sheets underneath her, soaking through the snow—no, not sheets. All snow.
The black casket cradled her, so stark in comparison to the light and her fairness.
Scarlett.
Her name came out as a scream inside of my mind, a roar erupting the peaceful silence right after.
This was wrong. This woman wasn’t my wife, but she was.
I was on her in an instant, frantic, my mouth to hers, attempting to give her the air from my lungs. She was still warm.
Not my wife.
The anguish was on a level I couldn’t even begin to fucking comprehend.
Blinking, I realized Mia wailed in the background, and that my wife was underneath me, my arms preparing to—what?
Her eyes were wide, huge with fright, but she blinked, attempting to hide the horror on her face.
Too late, I’d already caught it. As accustomed to her body as I was, her heart beat in a frantic pace, matching my own.
Forcing myself off her, I rolled, then sat up on the edge of the bed, my face in my hands. All my energy had been siphoned, refilled with tremors.
Scarlett’s footsteps padded behind me, going for Mia’s bed, her voice calm, soothing her in Slovenian.
Coming fully back to myself, I stepped into the sweatpants on the floor and then put a trembling hand to Scarlett’s shoulder.
“Get in bed,” I whispered. My voice was hoarse, like it grated against sandpaper, or I had been shouting hours on end. “Give her to me.”
She was hesitant but did.
Mia squirmed against me, still asleep, but fighting whatever unknown trouble she was dealing with in her dreams. I patted her back, whispering to her in Italian, telling her I was there, and then kissed her on her chubby cheeks.
A few minutes later, she let go of her fear and relaxed into me, holding on like a little monkey. Bringing her with me, I took a seat on the edge of the bed again, not letting her go.
