Page 18 of Dream Girl

The wind outside smacks against the glass window, and I don’t have to move my curtains to see how strong the storm is going.

I stagger to the bathroom, groaning as another cough hits me. I peer at myself through the unruly mess of my blonde hair; the bruising around my neck hasn’t been this dark in the morning. It was just some light marks from my fingers, but now there are darker, wider, and more severe bruises.

I furrow my eyebrows, tracing the four lines on one side of my neck as confusion rocks through me. One mark on my other side, closer to my pulse is just a dark mark that resembles—

My shuddering breath kicks up, rendering me shaking in my skin as I lift a trembling hand to my neck. Mimicking the same position, the same placement, and the same demeanor behind the bruises—a violent shiver claws up my spine and takes control of the hand around my neck.

It’s a hand.

The bruises are from a hand—a hand, bigger, strong, and deadlier than mine.

Milo, the voice of doubt whispers in my head.

My feet quickly carry me to my phone on the ground; my knees scrape against the carpet as my fingers shakily dial his number again. The annoying voicemail offers me a chance to leave a voicemail, and I do. I leave one for him because I need him.

I don’t need Eddie. I need Milo.

“M-Milo—I…” The carpet hasn’t had details for a while, and my eyes are swaying with the redness of it.

“Please come home.”

I drop the phone, the edge hitting my thigh before bouncing off while I hold the side of my neck where there are more bruises on the surface.

It makes sense. Everything hits me, and it’s stupid of me to not see the clues in front of my face. They have been there the whole time, and I just missed them because I wasn’t looking hard enough.

The door of our apartment slams open. Stomping in is Milo with snow clinging to his dark hair and eyes wild with a taste of animalistic aggression in them.

He’s at my side, holding my face in his hands and searching my face for injuries. I cup my hands over his, a futile attempt to hold him there, so he doesn’t have a chance to escape. I don’t have the strength to match his when he pulls back, withdrawing into his empty shell when the anger in his eyes switch to stark blankness.

“What—”

I snatch his hand with both of mine, grasping and lacing our fingers together to stop him from pulling away. His hand is cold, stiff, and unyielding when I squeeze it. A flash of unrecognizable pain crosses his eyes rapidly, too quick for me to see what they mean.

“I’m not hurt.”

He flinches. I felt it, and it’s excruciating to witness the regret and guilt encasing him in a cloud of darkness and self-hatred.

With a small amount of power, I yank him down to me, and he falls to my body without a fight. He can pull away from me anytime he wants, he has the power to do so, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

His body is cold from being in the snowstorm, and he has no idea that the tips of his hair had turned into icicles on some parts. Wrapping my arms around his neck as he sits with me in silence, I let the warmth of our apartment fill his limbs with heat.

When he moves to adjust his body, he’s slow and almost afraid to touch me. I secure him to me, burying my face into his hair while the soreness around my throat worsens at the hot fanning of his breath.

“I went to Doctor Fulton.” His voice is deep as if he hadn’t used it in a while, raspy and husky in ways that tugs on my heartstrings.

I listen, and he talks; this is his time to get his emotions out.

“I told her.” He stops, nudging his nose on my shoulder to avoid my neck. “I told her about the nightmare that I had. It was vivid—too real that I acted on instinct, and I hurt you.”

I want to comfort him and tell him that it’s fine; I’m not hurt and it’s nothing a bag of ice wouldn’t fix. However, that would be downplaying his guilt that no doubt had been plaguing him.

“I was back there, on the battlefield, killing everyone in sight.”

I swallow; heaviness sets in my stomach as I hold him tighter. The flickering of candles around us cast moving shadows, a symbolic monster haunting him through his words.

“I—it was bad. I did horrible things, but I wanted to survive. I wanted to come home.”

Whether home is on American soil or home with me, but he’s struggling with reality and is trying his best to open up to me. I press a kiss to the side of his head, breathing in the crisp scent of icy snow.

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