Shadowed

XIV. Nightmares

The heavy door slams, jolting me out of a restless sleep.

Drew steps back into the room behind the door, face stretched into a silent yawn. His eyes are puffy with sleep and his blond hair is a tangled mess.

"What are you doing?" I murmur, reaching a hand towards my head to try to flatten my own overgrown hair, which is similarly disheveled.

"Just going to the bathroom," he says, slumping down onto the floor next to me. "I think that asshole's probably sleeping off a hangover."

I nod. He's right—the building is eerily quiet. Donovan was awake late into the night. I remember being jerked out of a dream to the sounds of yelling and shattering glasses, before sleep pulled me back into its clutches.

I can't picture the dream. It's slipping away, and my head tries to wrap around what fleeting shards are left of it, but nothing stays long enough for me to grasp it. It's gone.

I think I saw Drew's face in it, though. And I remember the feeling, the silent bliss, the comfort. 

Dreams contain only the realest versions of emotions, the stripped-down, true thrills and ecstasy, and sometimes those clear jolts of fear that come with nightmares. 

I remember too many times waking up gasping, tears wetting my cheeks, my stomach twinging with panic from a dream that had already withdrawn from my mind. It leaves me wondering what it was that pulled me out of sleep and left me there, shuddering, unable to shake the feeling that something was horribly, awfully wrong.

I wonder how many dreams I've had that I can't remember. I wonder how many times I startled awake screaming from terrors my own mind created.

Drew looks at me through tired, hooded eyes, absentmindedly rubbing at his chin, where the shadow of a beard has begun to show itself. His pool-green gaze is calm, quiet, and slightly inquisitive.

I can feel his eyes burning into me. They trace a path across my face, down my chest, and finally back up to my own eyes.

"This is all for you? You're who they're looking for?" he asks suddenly. I nod, trying to force myself to hold his gaze, but feeling my eyes drifting away almost on their own accord.

His eyes flick up to the molding ceiling, where they stay for a moment as he lets out a tiny sigh. 

"Do you know why? Do you have any idea?" He leans against the wall, and his voice is strained, as if he's struggling to hold back what he really wants to say.

It's obvious he thinks all of this, everything that happened yesterday, is my fault—and it is my fault, in a way. His face is enveloped in pain, and it sends guilt stabbing through me like an electric shock, but my resolve is firm enough that I won't tell him what I've been thinking. 

I clench a fist, digging my fingernails into my palm, and exhale through my teeth.

It's almost glaring, what they want me for. My immortality. It's the sort of thing that everyone is convinced they want. A curse, hellish and lonely, disguised as a blessing. They know about it, that much is clear. Angella's face when I told her my name revealed everything she didn't say. And she was desperate not to be found with me. I can only guess what lengths they'd be willing to go to get to me, to obtain what I wish I never had.

Drew stares at me pointedly, and I realize I've allowed the silence to go on for too long.

I raise a shoulder halfheartedly and look away, as I try to convince myself that no answer is better than letting another lie leave my lips, because I could never bring myself to tell him the truth.