Page 17 of Saint

A nightmare?

I skim my hands down over my stomach, and my insides twist in knots when my fingertips graze over something crusty. I glance down at the thick, matted mess on the front of my white sweater, and I’m not ready to face the reality staring back at me.

Skating my fingers over the blood splatter, I try to focus—to remember the night clearly. My hands trace down the blood to the hole ripped in my fishnets, and my chest tightens with the reminder of Saint’s fingers slipping between the holes. The sound of the netting tearing as he ripped them open hits me full force.

None of this was in my head, and there’s no waking up.

Liam.

Saint.

“No, no, no.” I scramble to my feet, nearly falling when I try to stand.

Luckily, I catch myself on the mattress, closing my eyes and trying to clear my head.

Everything about last night is blurry, and it’s almost impossible to see through the haze.

Why is it so hard to remember?

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I remember the cloth. The struggle for air. The darkness.

Saint must have drugged me after what he did because that’s the last thing I saw before everything went black. Then, I was floating. Hanging in a state of suspension, like being underwater. Peaceful, even as my lungs burned for air.

Opening my eyes, I take in my room. It’s the same as yesterday, with everything in its place. Nothing around me has changed when I don’t feel like myself at all. I’m a wobbly mess in the center, unable to remember how I got back here.

I try to stand again and stumble. This time, I brace myself on my nightstand, knocking my purse over as I do.

My purse?

That can’t be right. The last time I saw it was on the floor of Liam’s car. My fingers itched to reach for the front pocket to grab my phone. But then everything happened so fast.

Saint.

Blood.

I left it when I made a run for it into the forest. But here it is, sitting on the nightstand like it’s been here all along.

This can’t be happening.

None of this is real.

The last thing that made sense was Liam driving us to the Valentine’s Massacre party. We must have arrived, and maybe I drank too much? Someone might have slipped something into my drink. Or maybe this is all some sick prank.

Glancing down at the matted blood on my sweater, I wonder how far someone would go to pull a prank like this. I know real blood when I see it. This isn’t ketchup or paint. And with how my body hurts and aches, I’m certain what happened in the forest wasn’t just in my head.

Picking up my purse, I dig into the front pocket and pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find Liam’s number. I press his name and lift my phone to my ear, begging him to answer.

This is all a dream.

All a nightmare.

It rings and rings, and each one rattles loose the denial I’m clinging to.

“This is Liam. You know what to—”

His voicemail.

I end the call, and I’m gripping my phone so hard that I’m going to break it. Staring down at the blank screen, my mind races, struggling to figure out what to do. I could call for help.I should. But the room is flipping over on itself, and there’s no turning back time.

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