Page 2 of A Bond with the Dark

I begin to sob, taking a sharp breath, but it does not quell the hitch I have in my heart. This suffocating feeling. The strangulating grief weighing down on me and crushing me alive. She was my best friend.

When I beat leukemia five years ago, my mom was by my side for every bone marrow biopsy, blood transfusion, lumbar puncture, and chemo treatment for two and a half years. My mom had been there for me through all my trauma. My first baby dying, my sexual assault, the abusive relationships, my son almost dying, my cancer—all of it.

There are no words that will suffice as a raft in this rogue wave that is monstrous and threatening, engulfing me within its treacherous waters. The crushes of heaven and Earth are weighing me down beneath that water, and the splintered moonlight is piercing, like a beacon I can’t reach because the waves are too strong.

I watch the snow billowing outside through the giant picture window in a stupor, rocking back and forth. My left hand is clutching my heart, trying to prevent it from leaping out of my chest. There's a pain in my jaw from crying so hard and gasping for air, screaming the next breath out.

Somehow, I find myself stumbling back to my bedroom. I collapse at the foot of the bed, my phone still in hand, as though it’s the life force keeping me anchored in this realm. If I drop it, I will become untethered and end up somewhere time, space, and walls don't exist.

The winds outside my window whistle.

It's unclear how long I lay on the floor, the darkness of the room closing in on me, the weight of my sadness crushing my bones and snuffing out my light. It takes all I have to peel myself off the carpet and retreat downstairs to get another weed gummy—my only vice. It helps me on the nights my mind wakes up and doesn't let me go back to sleep.

My drinking adventures began in my teens, but it never became a problem until I realized I was miserable in my marriage. Paired with the chemo that caused insomnia, the alcohol had me in a chokehold. When I finally managed to break free, I never wanted to return to its clutches.

I fill a glass of water and pad back to the living room, flicking the TV on. Mindlessly, I scroll through my different streaming services, trying to find something funny. Something comforting.

Friends.

The sitcom had been there for me in my darkest hours while I walked with leukemia, slaying the beast I fear will return for me one day.

Neither here nor there right now.

Right now, I have to focus on holding myself together while everything I know comes crashing down around me.

I let my mind relax while I watch my favorite show, losing myself in the quips and banter of the actors on the screen.

After three episodes, my eyes get heavy and I feel as though I could possibly sleep again.

As I drift off, I wonder if Mama will come to me tonight and tell me she made it safely to the other side.

But it isn't my mom who comes to me.

I'm standing in a field at the foot of the mountains, fog resting on the ground. The moon is high in the sky, illuminating the fog eerily in a pearlescent glow, like it is glinting off newly fallen snow. It looks like a field of fallen stars. A black shadow is silhouetted against the moon. Whomever he is, the savage aura about him runs me through to my bones.

His face slowly comes into focus. The merciless beauty of his face unhinges me with a sharp jawline, jet-black hair, and lashes that frame the most crystal-blue eyes I have ever seen. Behind the sinister smoothness in his smile, something beckons me to him. I try to marshal the thoughts to run but as much as I fear this, I’m afraid I will never want anything more.

My white dress billows out in front of me in a beguiled breeze as I await his approach.

Perhaps he is the angel of death, coming for me, too.

He's tall and muscular; his black shirt makes his eyes pop, striking against the dark midnight blue of the sky. The moon bathes his face in light, contrasting the midnight black of his hair. He looks formidable as he draws closer to me, something fatal in his eyes foretelling a disastrous end.

I should run.

“Hello, I’m Sebastian,” his cruel voice reverberates through our misty midnight encounter. There is beauty in the deadly, smooth cadence.

I freeze in place as all-consuming, all-encompassing passion weighs me down like gel in a heating pack, warm and heavy, soothing yet passionate. Wanting nothing more but for him to reach me, to pull me up and kiss me urgently as though his life depends on it, I beckon him closer with a glint in my eye.

“I'm Lasayah,” I hear myself respond. “But I go by Sayah.”

“A beautiful name for such a beautiful woman,” he speaks through luscious lips, but the words don’t register.

The danger in his eyes, the destructive darkness, is like looking at something terrible for you, yet wanting it all the more because of that. He is darkness, and I want to be in darkness with him.

He inches closer, his cool voice coaxing and enticing, sexy and deep, “Sayah, what are you doing in my dreams?”

In his dreams? Isn't this my dream? Is this a dream at all? How is this possible?

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