I’m walking through a maze. This isn’t a fun corn hedge maze or the minotaur’s prison, but a maze of towering stacks of paper, books, clothing and toys, unopened boxes from Amazon and rusting kettles, stacked so high that I can’t climb over them. I have to go through.
I’m searching for my school rucksack. It’s bright red with characters from Hotel Transylvania. I love that rucksack, and I’m worried that it’s been swallowed by the maze, that I’ll never see it again and I’ll have to carry my things to school in a hessian sack.
I turn myself sideways to move through a narrow gap.
“Mum!” I call out. “Mum, I have to leave for school.Where’s my rucksack?”
“It’s in the kitchen, of course.” She sounds defensive, as if I were blaming her for my bag going missing. “I made you lunch. Your favourite – peanut butter and honey sandwiches.”
I haven’t been able to eat peanut butter since I was seven and I opened the jar to find a rat inside. But Mum always forgets. Sometimes when she looks at me, it’s like she doesn’t see me. She still sees a baby girl in my dad’s arms.
I twist and turn through the tunnels. Papers rain down on my head. The floor sways and buckles beneath my feet, warped from water damage and the squashed, rotting piles of newspaper that cover it. Things move in the piles around me, the scurrying sounds growing closer. I swallow down my fear and press on.
I get down on my knees to crawl through a tunnel between two old washing machines. I put my hands into the newspapers and they become covered in brown, sticky sludge. I emerge in the kitchen – or rather, what might’ve once been a kitchen. The counters are covered in boxes of food that wobble and crunch as the rodents inside them chew their way through. There’s blackened sludge in the sink, and the refrigerator, cupboards and bright yellow kitchen table are buried under piles of stuff. I spy my rucksack on top of a stack of National Geographic magazines that Mum saves for me because they have articles about archaeology. My Elsa lunchbox is sitting on top. I open the bag to shove it inside …
… and scream.
Huge black bugs with beady eyes and long scratchy legs pour out. They crawl up my arm, their tiny legs scratching my skin as they swarm over me. More bugs crawl out of my bag. They’re in my hair, my ears, burrowing into my nose. I cover my eyes, zip my mouth shut, and swallow my screams as I curl into a ball on the damp floor. There’s nothing I can do as they start to bite …
I wake, sweat-drenched and scratching, my skin covered in thousands of tiny, invisible bugs. Mirabelle yowls in protest as I throw myself out of bed, flick the light on, and practise the deep breathing my therapist taught meas I check my phone. 4.32 am.
“Meeerw?” Mirabelle regards me from her new spot on the windowsill.
“Don’t mind me, kitty. I’m going crazy. I’m sorry for tossing you out of bed.”
I’ve had these nightmares ever since I was eighteen. I had the first one the day I moved out of Mum’s house. My therapist, Harudha, says they’re a way for my brain to process the trauma now that I’m in a safe place, away from the piles. I thought I had them under control, but as we got closer to the wedding, they came back. I haven’t slept through the night for months.
I rub my eyes. I don’t remember coming up to bed. The last thing I recall, I was sipping hot chocolate and talking with Alaric, and then …
I glance down at myself. I’m wearing the same clothes I had on when I arrived. My mouth tastes of roast beef and chocolate.
Horror dawns on me.
I fell asleep in front of the fire.
Someone carried me up here.
Argh!
The breathing exercises aren’t helping. My skin itches and now my lips are tingling. Tiny bug legs crawl up my nose, squirm in my ears and creep over my pyjamas. I tear off my clothes and hurry into the shower. I’m pleasantly surprised to find a modern bathroom with a black-and-gold tiled shower. I stand under the three jets, allowing the hot water to sluice off the embarrassment of last night and the horrible dream.
I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw. I put on my fresh, clean pyjamas. Then I pull off the sheets, throw them outside the door, and replace them with fresh ones I find in a blanket box at the end of the bed.
Under the sink in the bathroom are some cleaning supplies. Mirabelle cleans between her toes and watches me scrub the floor, the bed frame, and every surface in the room. By the time I’m done, my eyes sting from the chemicals and I need to take another shower, but at least the bugs have stoppedcrawling over me.
I climb back into bed, exhausted but knowing that my eyes won’t close now. Mirabelle settles into a furry ball against my hip. I pick up one of the romance novels in the stack Mina sold me.
I fall into a world of brooding, epically-schlonged vampires and read until sunlight pours through my windows. Mirabelle’s back rises and falls as she sleeps. I try not to be jealous of the cat.
I fail.
I finish one book and get five chapters into another before hunger drives me from bed. I throw off the covers again, forgetting about my little furry bedmate.
“Meorrw!” Mirabelle glares at me with indignation as she clings to the blanket for dear life.
“Sorry, sorry!”
I glance at the clock. Nearly lunchtime. Still too early for Alaric’s nocturnal schedule, but my body clock isn’t wired to sleep all day, especially when there’s organising to do.
