Page 26 of Grace

Grace

I keep having the same dream. I’m walking toward our house. Only a few more steps, I whisper to myself as I drag my bleeding leg. Hold on—only a few more steps. But I never make it home.

I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to tell myself the story of what happened to me over the last few years… every single morning, before the world wakes up. Maybe this is my own form of therapy, keeping me from going mad. These “tales” help me calm down, reassuring me that I’m okay—that the panic, the fear, and the anxiety are natural reactions.

I’m already awake when I hear the coffee maker start, five minutes before the alarm clock—the noise makes me wince. I stare at the ceiling. I haven’t slept well. The window shouldn’t be open at night!

The curtains dance in the soft breeze, and cool air slips in and sweeps over my bare skin. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying it. During the day, the heat is brutal.

Cyrus grumbles and turns onto his other side. He’s sleeping peacefully. He always does. I envy him. I can’t sleep unless I take a lot of sleeping pills. I have to—when I’m too exhausted…

I switch off the alarm clock before it can continue to whine. Cyrus snorts, but doesn’t wake up. If only I could sleep this peacefully… and live my life without this anxiety.

It’s been years.

More than two years. Still, I can’t sleep well. Whenever I close my eyes, I see them. I’m constantly scanning the crowd for their faces, listening for their voices. Sometimes I even imagine them being there somewhere. But Chase is in prison—and he’ll stay there for the rest of his life. And the others are gone.

No one can hurt me anymore. I try to calm myself before panic swallows me.

I hear a loud pop outside, like a tire blowing out. I jump out of bed and throw myself into the corner—from here, I can see the whole room. This alerts Cyrus, and he lifts his head. His medium-length, chestnut-brown hair lies tangled on the pillow.

He blinks, trying to shake off sleepiness and understand what’s going on. He must be wondering why Grace is trembling in the corner.

“Good morning,” he says with a soft smile.

“Hey,” I squeeze out a reply between two heavy breaths.

“You okay?” he asks in his deep, scratchy voice, lifting one of his thick eyebrows.

“Yeah,” I lie, nodding feverishly.

“Grace…” His voice is deeper, harder. He looks at me with a suspicious, meaningful expression. I bite the inside of my lip. I’m trembling, and my heart is racing. The lively bustle of the street turns into a monotone drone as it enters the room.

Cyrus gets out of bed, grabs a hair tie and pulls his hair into a ponytail, then puts on his underwear.

He crouches down in front of me.

His bones must still be half asleep—they crack softly. A faint, masculine smell of sweat fills my flared nostrils. He cups my face in his warm hands and looks into my eyes. His palms are rough, callused. His knuckles are raw too, like always. They never heal because he loses his temper easily, especially thanks to his boss, who is a real prick.

His body casts a shadow over me. His breath brushes my skin gently, and worry darkens his dark brown irises into an even darker shade.

I feel so miserable when this happens.

“No one can hurt you anymore, baby,” he says, trying to calm me down.

And I want to believe him.

That’s what I keep telling myself, too. Still, I’m afraid that if I start to enjoy life too much, it will turn into hell again. Life didn’t let me give up—it wanted me to fight, and it kept screwing me over. Cyrus is the only constant in my life.

I often daydream—my thoughts stray into dangerous territory they should avoid. Still, sometimes I let them continue. What if those horrors had never happened to me? And various cheesy thoughts.

Nine years ago, I had a plan for my life. I knew which university I wanted to go to, what I’d be when I grew up… I wanted a loving, caring husband, three kids, a dog, a garden—the American dream.

But that train went off the rails just like that. And it ran me over, crushing my dreams and desires to pieces. Now, only one thing matters to me: to survive. That’s all I have left. Survival.

Seeing that I just sit there lifeless for a long moment, Cyrus pulls me into his arms. He settles me on his lap and rocks me, swaying softly. Peaceful as the sea. He strokes my hair, his bearded chin resting against my head. His warmth, his strength, his huge, muscular body make me feel safe, calm me down. My heartbeat gradually slows down to normal, and my trembling body melts like wax in his arms. I rest my head against his bare chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart.

The sun slowly rises on the blue horizon. Soft light washes over our room, which is filled with ramshackle, cheap furniture, second-hand electronic gadgets, and a drooping fern. The white paint has already flaked off the window frame, the cheap floorboards have become worn over the years, the bathroom tiles are yellow—and missing in places.