CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On returning homefrom the bar, I ransack my bathroom cabinet, pulling out boxes of paracetamol, ibuprofen, congestion tablets, and antidepressants until I find what I’m looking for.
Over the past ten years, I’ve been prescribed an apothecary’s worth of drugs that were supposed to help me feel better. The early days were a blur of chemical-induced survival, my zombielike existence a mist of hazy memories. The drugs all made me feel like I was cocooned from the world, going through the daily motions in a suspended state of reality.
It was a horrible feeling, existing yet not, the side-effects bringing their own catalogue of symptoms, such as sleeplessness yet feeling tired all the time, irritable bowel syndrome, and brain fog. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life blindly fumbling through the haze. So, slowly, I weaned myself off the drugs until I was able to function without them. But until my first meeting with Valdemar, my nights remained troubled, my mind refusing to shut down, the loss clawing at my skull like a hungry beast feeding on my what-ifs.
Holding the box of sedatives, I almost laugh at why I didn’t think to try these when I was first attempting to quash the dreams.
I was prescribed them years ago when my sleepless nights were starting to affect my ability to operate and hold down my job. They’re strong, and the doctor told me I couldn’t use them every night, only for the times when I’d gone days without sleep and my body was struggling.
Flipping the box over, I clock the use-by date—just gone three years.
I’m about to toss them in the bin when Una’s face flashes before my eyes, the look of horror on it when I’d told her I’d visited Valdemar Montresor and was beginning to understand why he’d killed my brother. Then I replayed the look when Pierre had mentioned the dreams.
What would their reactions be if they knew the truth about the dreams, how I’ve been craving them? How safe I felt in his arms during the fight at the prison, how he’s the only person I can talk to without holding anything of myself back?
I can still feel the tingling on my skin from when Una had removed her caring hand from the back of mine when I told her I understood why Valdemar had killed my brother.
What is wrong with me? Why have I bonded with Valdemar? Is it because he’s given me answers? Because he still has a link to my brother? Was it the way he made me feel the day of the fight? Or is it purely the dreams? Has he manipulated me into feeling things that aren’t really there?
I’m starting to lose my fucking mind and my grip on reality.
And it has to stop before I lose myself completely to Valdemar Montresor.
I punch two pills out of the blister pack, pop them into my mouth, and swallow before heading to my bedroom, where I dig out Valdemar’s T-shirt from under my pillow.
I should throw it away. Shred it. Burn it. But I can’t. Instead, I stuff it into the back of my closet, trying not to inhale his scent embedded in the cotton.
Sending out silent prayers, I climb into bed, hoping to God the sedative works and knocks me out for the night.
The plush carpet is soft beneath my bare feet, my toes sinking into the woven loops, the dark red colour a stark contrast to the paleness of my skin.
Lights bedazzle my periphery like a kaleidoscope flaring at the edges of my vision. Voices of people I can’t see rain down around me. With each step, more words reach me.
“Higher.”
“Black twenty-nine.”
“Place your bets.”
There’s a drink in my hand, amber in colour, the glass cold against my palm. But when I take a sip, the glass is empty, yet I feel the liquid run down the back of my throat, coating it in a silky syrup.
The woven threads of the carpet become dense, and my grip on the glass tightens as I see him. Ed. Just as he was the very last time I saw him before he left for work—his crisp white shirt peeking out from underneath his sleek waistcoat paired with black pressed trousers.
“Red twenty-one.”
“All-in.”
“Beginner’s luck.”
I stumble, going over my ankle as the glass falls from my grip and bounces off the carpet. Ignoring the throbbing pain, I pick up my pace.
Shading his eyes with his hand, he glances around the room as if looking for me. I go to wave, but something heavy has replaced the glass that fell from my hand.
My feet sink into mud as the red carpet disappears beneath a sea of dense dirt. Squelching my toes into the new terrain, I glance up just as he spots me.
There’s a pull in my cheeks as the grin expands across my face, and I expect him to mirror my joy, warmth flourishing in his grey skin. Instead, his face drops and his eyes widen, his mouth shaping the word “No.”
