I shake my head. I don’t understand. I know he wants me. Why is he doing this?
He slides the back of his knuckles across my cheek with heartbreaking tenderness. "I’m leaving. I won’t be coming back this time."
Swallowing Freddy Kruger
16 Years Old
The sterile silence of the night is broken only by the soft crackle of my labored breaths.
Strep throat. I’ve been out of school for a week and I’ve only gotten worse.
Here, in the room that Jean and David allocated to me—the charity case, the project—I lie in a feverish haze.
I’m their good deed to flaunt, but here I am, left to nurse myself back to health because, let’s face it, playing the nursemaid doesn’t fit into their nine-to-five.
Jean means well, I guess, offering her help. But I pushed it away, telling her I could manage. I didn’t want them hovering, didn’t want them seeing me weak. So, they sleep, probably dreaming of charity galas and tax deductions, while I lie here counting seconds in pain.
But now, in the middle of the night, I’m tempted to reach for my phone to call or text her. To do... I don’t know what. Be with me?
I dismiss the thought quicker than it forms.
My throat hurts so bad, it feels like Freddy Krueger is in there, raking along the inside of my jugular with his razorgloves over and over again. I’m so tired, but the aches in my body make it impossible to fall asleep.
My hair is a sweaty mess, and I look like death reheated. Pale skin, chapped rough lips, and my eyes are red-rimmed. If I wasn’t feeling like such crap, I’d revel in the fact I resemble the monster I am on the inside for once.
Usually the night brings me comfort, but I feel trapped and isolated in pain that stretches minutes into hours.
At least David has given me a wide berth, since he can’t afford to get sick while he’s on a big project for work. Thank fuck for that, at least.
I shiver, pulling the covers tighter as I glance at the digital clock, its neon blue numbers frozen in place. I try to swallow, but each attempt is more painful than the last.
I already feel like a freak every day of my life. Being sick and isolated only dumps on top of that feeling. At least going to school and studying allows me to hide in the fold, play pretend that I’m like everyone else.
And then, as if summoned by my darkest thoughts, there’s a faint scratching, a sound that’s become a nocturnal comfort. Shadow. The floorboards creak, the soft whisper of darkness slides across the room, and the air shifts.
He doesn’t speak, but his form coalesces at the edge of my bed.
An emotional wave of relief sweeps through me. I reach out for him like a child. His massive, clawed hand wraps around mine. I sigh and close my eyes.
I instantly feel better.
"You are ill," he rumbles.
"Strep throat," I croak out.
I don’t know if he knows what that is. Do monsters get sick? I don’t have the energy or the voice to ask him.
Even though his misty white eyes lack irises or pupils, they search mine. "What do you need?"
I swallow again and it only infuriates Freddy Krueger who claws at my throat with extreme prejudice.
I can’t tell him what I need. Even if I could get my voice to work, my brain won’t work beyond the neon flashing sign pain being broadcasted to every cell in my body.
Shadow swipes his palm along my sweat-soaked forehead, smoothing my hair back.
A moan of contentment comes out of me as I lean into it. In the glow of the moonlight, his tendrils—darker than the space between stars—reach out. They brush against my forehead, an ethereal caress that cools the fever from my skin.
Usually, he is warm to the touch, so I wonder if he can control his body temperature at will. Again, I don’t have the strength or ability to ask.
