Page 16 of Beautiful Deception

Ever since then, I sleep with the lights on to keep the secret from returning as a nightmare. A secret I haven’t told Dr. Kian. I’m just not ready yet.

Pulling the duvet higher and tucking it firmly under my chin, I adjust to my side and face the opposite wall. It’s past the usual time I sleep, but I’m not tired at all. Abnormally energetic even.

I start counting the floorboard swirl patterns, getting to double digits when a precise creak under my bed—purposeful, almost perfect on the volume to raise doubt but not caution. My whole body stiffens, my toes curling with a strain at the arch as fear becomes static, creepy crawlers migrating on my skin.

My eyes strain on the dizzy spiral of wooden panels, waiting for the next creak to break free of my nightmare manifesting itself. The silent room reaps my courage to look beneath my bed, a horrible act of curiosity and completely in favor of my flight instinct.

The defining line of shadow created from the bed bends just the slightest, insignificant yet so glaring.

This isn’t about aged walls and worn floors anymore.

Something is under my bed.

I lunge out of bed, the duvet flying to cover the shadow as my feet smack the floor with throttling regret. Within seconds, I thought of a hand wrapping around my ankle or someone crawling out from under the bed when I looked back. I run to the door, but compulsive fear manifests a noose around my neck and fixes a part of my soul onto the bed. I had a sense of hesitation mostly, but still, no matter what was holding me back, my speed did falter.

The closer to the door, the faster the ticked mirth of sadism rocks my frayed self-control. Tears bead at the corners of my eyes as I swing the door open and lunge into a pair of sturdy arms. It takes everything I have not to punch whoever is holding me.

“Maya,” someone calls, again and again, like an echoing cave. “It’s me.”

I piece together a warped photo of Dr. Kian in my head and clench it close to my heart. It’s a tentative act, but it’s a miracle when the memories of him disintegrate the adrenaline clinging to my rioting blood.

“What happened?” he asks while running a hand down my back.

I shove myself deeper into his arms, nausea circling in my throat as it smears on my tongue like rotten trash under the humid summer heat.

“Let me check for you,” Dr. Kian suggests while unhurriedly taking his hand off my back, but that leaves me so vulnerable and stressed.

I throw my arms around his tense waist, my fingers digging into the muscles over his shirt with despair in each scratch. Black ink trickles into the center of my vision, a manifestation of sleep watches with fascination, and exhaustion pitches its net across my slumping body.

“I got it.”

It’s Remo. His voice topples the last defense of insanity, and his hand that’s firmly resting on the top of my head, kills the chaotic static noises.

I’m safe.

I like this feeling.

Dr. Kian tightens his arms around my back and under my knees, lifting me gently while whispering something to Remo. His shirt emits subtle fabric softener and his own scent, but his strong heartbeats sway to a rhythm calmer than my faded worry.

When he drops me on a mattress, I nervously look up from his chest to peer over his broad shoulder. It’s a room I’ve never been in, and probably his from the faint scent.

He kneels in front of me, his frame easily devouring mine as he pushes the hair from my face. A smile forms on his lips, and it becomes the grip on reality while his toffee-colored eyes soak in the lamp’s warmth.

“I’ll make something to drink for you,” he whispers into the night. “Is that okay?”

I nod fitfully as a tickling in my throat forces me to cough into my hand. My eyes lock onto his back, fearing I’ve imagined him and that I’m still inside my room.

He comes back shortly, setting one knee on the same spot, and carefully puts the mug into my trembling hands.

“There are herbs in there that will help you sleep,” he warns.

I drink the entire thing before he finishes his words. Anything is better than waking up in a cold sweat and the fading haunts of my nightmare.

“A-am I getting worse?” I wonder, tears blurring my eyes as I grip the ceramic mug.

“What makes you say that?”

I swallow dryly, wishing the herb would instantly knock me out instead of recalling that terrifying moment.

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