Page 3 of Shadow

The room darkened as the shadows encroached.

They were coming for me.

They never gave me any rest.

They never would.

Not even the pills Psych prescribed made them go away.

A shadow emerged to the forefront, stopping me in my tracks.

It was the innocent one.

The one person who didn’t deserve to die.

I felt his death the most.

“She needs you. Save her,” his fading voice whispered all around me. I didn’t know who he was talking about, but from the moment he took his last breath, I remembered his last words. Now, he would come to me in my dreams and say the same thing, “She needs you. Save her.”

If only I knew who he was talking about. I’ve tried many times to get him to say more, but it’s always the same words. He never deviates. He says what he needs to and then fades away, allowing the others to torment me.

Their voices get louder and louder until I can’t take anymore.

“ZEKE!”

Jolting up, I swung the knife I kept under my pillow as the room came into focus. My brother Ghost was standing close, worry etched on his face. “It was just a dream, brother.”

Dropping the knife, I raked my hands down my face when the smell of blood hit my nose. My eyes widened as I saw Ghost holding his side. Fuck. I cut my brother.

“Ghost?”

My brother shook his head. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about.”

“I cut you.”

“You were having a nightmare. I shouldn’t have shouted like I did.”

Swinging my legs to the side, I planted my feet on the cold floor. “Fuck, Balthazar. Nothing’s working and now I’m hurting innocent people. Just fucking put me out of my misery before I kill someone. Please.”

“Can’t do that, Zeke.”

“I’m no good to anyone.”

“You just need time, brother. Give therapy a chance to work.”

Therapy.

I hated that word.

Since I returned from Oklahoma, Psych had my ass in a small room every motherfucking day as he forced me to talk about shit that I wanted to forget. Apparently, he said the more I talked about it, the faster my brain would assimilate, accept, and move on. Crock of shit if you asked me. All it did was bring my nightmares forward and make them more prominent. I thought therapy was supposed to get rid of that shit, not make it more debilitating. No matter how much I complained, Psych insisted I trust the process.

Fuck the process. I wanted to sleep without seeing their faces.

It didn’t help to see my club brothers every day.

Those motherfuckers would look at me with the most pitiful eyes, almost as if they blamed themselves for my situation. Bastards didn’t make me kill those people. As far as I was concerned, they had nothing to be sorry for.

“Zeke?”

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