Page 45 of The Chance

Empty.

The darkness looms around my vision, at war with the exhaustion that won’t grab onto me and pull me under.

I just want to sleep.

But it doesn’t come.

I swallow another sleeping pill.

The trembles get worse. The nighttime slipping away.

But my heart, it stays right here. Pounding through its jagged edges to drown out the sound of it breaking. Speeding its way past every spiraling thought that pulls me farther and farther into this pit of hopelessness.

There is no end to this misery.

No rest for the damaged.

Only blackness.

Chapter Thirty

Peach

A deep, guttural screamrings through the hallway and I jolt to a stop. I’m pivoting when it cuts off, sprinting when something inside Mac’s room crashes.

I don’t bother knocking.

But when I go to push inside, something bars the way.

“Mac!” I call out and give another push.

There’s a groan from the other side, a sound that’s somewhere between pain and a sob and I push harder.

It gives enough distance for me to squeeze through, and I clamor over the overturned couch in my way.

“Mac.”

He’s standing in the middle of the chaos, a pillow in his grip, feathers falling out with each inch that he rips it wide open.

“Okay,” I murmur and ease closer. “I looked this shit up, okay?” I raise my hands and take another step. “Sleepwalkingandtrashing shit, huh? This is a new one for me.”

I risk another step, only to rock back when his wild eyes swing on me. They’re wide and hardened, the whites beyond bloodshot, the green-blue nearly swallowed by the dark center.

That’s new.

And terrifying.

“Shit,” I breathe out. “This is worse than last night, bud. What’s got you fucked up?” I keep my voice low and as even as I can. His chest pumps with his rapid breaths as it has for the past three nights. His hands working apart the shit he’s holding is a new development.

Normally, he just wanders around. Ends up in the bathroom, propped up and sleeping in the shower or sitting straight up on the couch like he’s wide awake.

Hell, I even caught him ready to walk out into the hallway one night two weeks ago.

But it’s not the torn pillow or the sweat wetting his shirt that’s got me rethinking coming in here without radioing for assistance.

It’s the dead look in his eyes. The tightness of his face.

The way hesoundslike he’s crying, sobbing, and yet not a tear gathers in his eyes.

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