Page 39 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

My heart is slamming into my eardrums, drowning out the sounds of my heavy breathing. It’s still dark outside, and the house is quiet. The sheets are pulled from the edge of the bed, and my head feels foggy.

I loathe this part of the night, the only part of my carefully sculpted routine I wish didn’t exist.

It takes approximately five minutes for me to return to normal. For my breathing to level out and the fog to clear from my brain. Then, I can go back to sleep and fall into a dreamless slumber.

It’s clockwork. It’s been that way since I was young.

These dreams come to me a few times a week. Some of them are repeats; others are new. All of them figments of my unhinged imagination that I have absolutely no control over.

I roll my shoulders, rubbing my hands down my face in frustration and letting myself settle for five minutes until I’m able to get out of bed. My throat is dry, and I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand only to see it’s not there. I look up at the digital piano set up against the wall, a smile pulling at the edge of my lips.

I push myself out of the bed, hearing the floor creak beneath my weight as I pull the door open. My head throbs, and I’m already planning to swallow a handful of painkillers to get it to stop.

But my walk to the kitchen is disturbed.

Just outside my room, lying across a small decorative love seat, is Lyra. The tiny couch is shoved against the banister in front of my door; the deep purple cushions make for great decoration, but I know for a fact it’s uncomfortable.

She’s curled around a pillow, her dainty arm dangling off the edge, with a thin blanket draped across her body. I smirk at her hair. It’s chaotically thrown across the soft features of her face, curls galore sticking in every direction humanly possible.

The sound of my steps towards her must wake her up because I can see her blink herself awake, rubbing the back of her hand against her eye.

“Why are you sleeping out here?” I ask her sleepy state.

Still half-asleep and unguarded, she answers me.

“You have nightmares,” she mutters groggily, taking her sweet time to sit up. “I sleep out here when they start, just in case you need anything when you wake up.”

Lyra yawns, stretching her arms above her head. My sweater has ridden up her body, exposing her soft stomach and green underwear she’s chosen to wear.

She’s completely unfazed by her admission and the fact she’s wearing my clothes.

My jaw is set painfully tight, the tips of my nails digging into my palms.

“I don’t have nightmares.”

My reply sounds unintelligent. Childish, even.

We’d had a civil moment yesterday. The piano had been a peace offering, an olive branch I accepted, and now she’d set it on fire.

“Okay.” She shrugs, slowly standing up, looking even more of a mess standing in front of me now than she had been while sleeping.

How long has she been doing this?

“Then stop sleeping outside my goddamn door.”

The curse word tastes foreign on my tongue. I don’t need anything from her, especially after a trivial dream that has no effect on my life.

My anger must be the shot of energy she needs to fully wake up because she’s much livelier, her arms crossed defensively in front of her chest.

“No,” she declares. “I hear you. You shout and roll around for hours. I can hear you fighting whatever it is that haunts you at night.”

I scoff, mimicking her stance. “Are you always so dramatic? Nothing haunts me at night. Besides you, of course. I can’t seem to avoid you.”

This conversation will be like talking to a brick wall because she’s just as stubborn as she is dramatic. Once she believes something, there is nothing that will change it.

“Why do you do this? Every time you show any remote sign of being human, you shut it down.” She chews the inside of her cheek. “There is nothing wrong with feeling, Thatcher. It doesn’t make you any less perfect to have emotions.”

I grind my molars so hard that I’m positive I’ve cracked several teeth.

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