Page 28 of Lost Girl

I can feel it.

“Ma would be proud of your heart, you know? I am, too, because your intentions come from a good place—but as your sister who’s only trying to help you, I’m asking you not to, please—”

“It’s happening. Just roll with it, okay?” I cut her off. What’s the point of going back and forth? “We’re going to get her out of there and that’s that.”

Let the chips fall where they may.

?Ready or Not -

Mischa “Book” Chillak feat. Esthero?

Why is fear all I feel these days?

I live and breathe it in consciousness, can’t escape it in my sleep.

And I know I’m asleep right in this moment, claimed by a deep slumber, but the sense of fear coursing through my body is still so crippling.

So overwhelming.

I want to curl up in a ball and fend off the terror behind the safety of my own embrace, but I can’t. My body remains stiff, flat as a board, despite the fact my mind begs it to respond.

It’s like I’m a fly caught in one of those sticky traps, buzzing about in an attempt to wiggle free.

And the worst part?

I can’t see. My eyes refuse to open, weighed down by figurative anchors. Every few minutes or so, I can crack them open long enough to see slivers of pale blue, but it’s a momentary reprieve.

Ironically enough, it’s the only time that gnawing fear seems to dissipate.

Why?

The color, I guess.

That pale blue reminds me of the walls in my room, and a part of me somehow feels the odd comforts of its confines. Like the particular squeak of the bed that meets my ears when I shift, and the chill of the air hitting my cheek that always creeps through the vents by the door.

But these things aren’t real. They’re all fabrications of my imagination, memories of a life I’ll likely never see with my own two eyes ever again.

“Wendy,” a voice whispers, racking an instant chilling shudder down my spine.

It’s not so much hearing my name that disturbs me. It’s the fact that I can’t make out who that voice belongs to.

That I can’t see or move.

A true sense of panic sweeps in then, melding with the fear that’s consumed me since Tinksley and Hook hurled me out the window into the cool London night. I’m twitching in place, trying my damnedest to move even a single limb, but that feeling of restraint intensifies tenfold.

“Wendy,” the whisper sounds a second time, an added weight keeping me pinned to whatever the plush surface beneath me may be.

More panic. More fear. I’m almost desperate now, whimpering, because for some reason, I can’t speak, either.

I can’t scream.

I can’t do anything.

Heart thrashing, my whimpers echo as I wriggle beneath whatever this hold may be. It doesn’t feel like the weight of a body and yet, in the same hand, it does. As though someone’s pinning down my wrists, ensuring my range of motion is nonexistent.

“Wendy.” There it is again, whatever the grip on my wrists is tightening all the more.

Let go,I try voicing, but the words ring out only in mind. My lips don’t even so much as flinch.

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