Him.
He held me.
Covered me.
Told me it was okay when it was anything but.
No amount of whisky is going to spill these words.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.“I went to bed, fell asleep, and then you arrived.I was screaming, but I don’t know why.”
“Were you dreaming?”He tips his glass, the whisky circling the edges like it’s trying to find a way out.
“If I was, I don’t remember it.All I remember is a feeling.”I tighten the blanket around me, feel the rawness of my arms under the material.
“What feeling?”
Bile rises in my throat as I stare at the bottle.I take another sip to try and push the nausea down.The alcohol works its way through my system as if trying to douse whatever is rising within me.
I gulp before looking at him.“Fear.”
He stares at me.“What were you afraid of?”
“That’s the strange thing,” I say, the whisky fuelling me.“I’ve been scared before—as a kid.Afraid of heights.Afraid of the dark.”
I stop there, even though the list continues.I’m scared of my father—scared of what he can make me do, what he’sgoingto make me do, and what’ll happen when he does.
“But this fear wasn’t like being scaredofsomething,” I explain.“It was different.This was soul-crushing.Black.Freezing.It was an all-consuming dread that had infected me—strangling me from the inside out.And there was nothing I could do about it other than let it take me.”
I glance at his scars.“Have you ever felt fear like that?”
My pulse pounds in my ears, and for a second, I think I’ve overstepped the mark, but then he answers.
“Once.”
“Of course you have.”Again, my eyes land on his scars, but this time, I keep them there.I’ve no idea how he got them.Willa told me he was in a fire.I don’t know how or why, but I can imagine his fear was ten times worse than what I’ve just described.He must have been caught, trapped, whilst the flames raged.
Sensing his need to change the topic, I move on.“Did you see anything on the camera?”
“No.”His answer is too quick, too blunt, which makes me wonder what hedidsee.
“What do you think happened?”I ask, trying to change tack.
He blinks like he’s considering the options.“It could have been a night terror.”
“I’ve never had a night terror before.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.”He traces the rim of his glass with his finger, and it sings lightly, making me quiver.
“Have you ever had one?”
“You have to be asleep to have a night terror.”He takes a sip of whisky, and I note the ease with which he swallows it.
“You don’t sleep?”
“Not for many years.”
“Shit.No wonder you’re such a grump.”
