Page 75 of Cowboy
Then I see him. Dylan. Standing between us, that cold smile on his face that I'd come to dread.
"She's not yours to save," he says, his voice echoing unnaturally. "She's merchandise. Just like you."
I try to scream, to lunge at him, but my body won't obey. I'm frozen, helpless, as he turns and walks toward Saoirse, gun in hand.
"No!" I finally manage to cry out. "Dylan, please! She's just a child!"
He turns back to me, but it's not Dylan anymore. It's Kovac. Then Mr. Blackwood. Then every man who ever bought me, used me, treated me like a thing instead of a person. Their faces blur together, melting into a horrific amalgamation of all my tormentors.
"You'll never be free," they say with one voice. "You'll never be safe."
The gun raises. Saoirse screams. I launch myself forward?—
And jolt awake, gasping for breath, sheets tangled around my sweat-soaked body. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The darkness is too complete, too similar to the container. Panic claws at my throat.
Then I feel warm, strong arms around me, and a familiar voice in my ear.
"Caoimhe, it's okay. You're safe. You're home."
Ciarán. His voice is an anchor, pulling me back to reality. Slowly, the bedroom comes into focus—Ciarán's bedroom, in his house, where I've been staying since that day at the cabin. Since Dylan died.
"The nightmare again?" he asks softly, his hand making gentle circles on my back.
I nod, unable to speak yet, focusing on steadying my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Just like Dr. Mitchell taught me.
"Same one?" Ciarán presses, his voice gentle.
"Variation on a theme," I manage, my voice hoarse. "Shipping container. Dylan. Saoirse in danger." I don't tell him about the faces, about the way they melt together. Some horrors are too personal to share, even with him.
"Saoirse is safe," he reminds me. "She's right down the hall, sound asleep. Do you want to go check on her?"
It's our ritual now. After the nightmares, we check on Saoirse. Seeing her peaceful, untouched by my nightmares, helps chase away the last of the terror.
I nod, and Ciarán helps me up. My legs are still shaky as we pad down the hallway to the room that's become Saoirse's. The door is cracked open, just as we leave it every night so she can see the hallway light if she wakes.
Inside, Saoirse is curled up under her duvet, clutching the stuffed rabbit Ciarán bought for her. Her face is relaxed in sleep, so different from the terrified child in my dreams. Relief washes over me, cooling the fever of my fear.
"See? Safe and sound," Ciarán whispers, his arm around my waist steadying me.
We stand there for a moment, watching her sleep. In these quiet moments, I can almost believe in a future where this is normal. Where nightmares are rare, not nightly visitors. Where I don't flinch at unexpected sounds or scan every room for threats.
Back in the hallway, Ciarán gently closes Saoirse's door. "Tea?" he offers, knowing I won't go back to sleep immediately.
"Please," I say, following him downstairs to the kitchen.
Ciarán moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity, filling the kettle, taking down mugs. I sit at the island, watching him. These past two weeks, he's been my rock. When the nightmares come, when the panic attacks hit, when I can't bear to be touched or spoken to—he's been there through all of it, steady and patient.
"Dr. Mitchell says the nightmares should decrease over time," I say, more to fill the silence than anything else. We've had this conversation before.
"They will," Ciarán agrees, setting the kettle to boil. "You're already doing better than last week."
He's right. Last week, I was having nightmares every time I closed my eyes. Now, at least, I can get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before they start.
"I just wish I could fast-forward through all this," I admit. "Skip to the part where I'm healed and whole."
Ciarán turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "You're already whole, Caoimhe. Wounded, yes. Healing, yes. But whole. You survived. That's not nothing."
I look up at him, taking in the sincerity in his eyes, the firmness of his belief. He really sees me that way—not as damaged goods, not as a victim, but as a survivor. As whole.
