The Seventh Avenger

Epilogue

Explosions. The swarms of aliens. Countless of broken and bloody bodies littering the streets, lifeless. Wails of horror. Buildings toppled, debris falling to the streets below. Police sirens in the distance. Gunshots. Smoke burning my lungs. I fight my way through the numerous images that flash through my mind, desperate for an escape but to no avail. My mind refuses to be brought back to reality, leaving me trapped and terrified inside my mind.

Which is why I am so grateful for the small thud echoing throughout the apartment; it wakes me up in a heartbeat.

My breathing is ragged, and the bedsheets are a tangled mess, sticking to the sweat coating my skin. My hands ache, and with a start, I realise that I have been gripping the bedsheets tightly during my tossing and turning. My knuckles appear white against the taut skin over them. Staring down at them, I blink dumbly, not fully awake. The remnants of the dream are slowly retreating to the furthest corners of my mind, but they leave imprints. Trembling, I release the hold on the sheets and reach up to grasp my throbbing skull.

Inhale through the nose. Hold. One. Two. Three. Exhale through pursed lips. Slow. Breathe. Repeat.

I lose track of how many times I repeat this sequence, but I know that I continue to do it until I feel like my breathing is under control. Only then do I stop, but I don't remove my hands from my face. They still shake, and I thread them through my blonde strands to cease their shaking.

The nightmare has been the same for the past several days. The memories of the Battle of New York manifest into monstrous dreams that I won't escape from until my screams wake me up. The process I have just used to calm myself down follows, but my throat is always too hoarse from all the yelling for me to cry. I shed no tears at what I had seen and endured. All I could do is try to repress the memories as much as my mind will let me.

But something about tonight is different- I can recognise this through my current brain fog. Frowning, I reach down with one hand to gently prod at my throat. It feels fine, as it usually does. It doesn't feel as raw as sandpaper, nor do I find myself desperately wishing for a drink. If I screamed, it hadn't been for that long. Or that loud, for that matter. What- what is it that had woken me up again?

The second thud answers my question. And my brain fog disperses in an instant.

Danger.

My heart once again races inside my chest- did it ever stop? - and my blood rushes in my ears. Feeling more awake than I had just seconds ago, I throw the drenched covers off me. The night air hits my legs with a sharp coolness, and I hiss quietly at the sensation. Fighting the urge to duck back into the bed, I keep my eyes trained on the door. Slowly, I reach into the gap between the bed frame and the mattress, and instantly curl my hands over the handle of the throwing knife.

As silent as a cat, I pull myself my feet and stalk forward, feeling thankful that I hadn't closed my bedroom door that night. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but by the time I reach the end of the empty hallway, I can make out enough. I can practically feel adrenaline spreading throughout my blood, my body preparing myself for either a fight or flight response. I try to keep my quickened breathing as quiet as possible, not wanting to alert the intruder of where I am hiding. As subtly as I can, I tilt my head around the corner of the wall separating the hallway from the living room and kitchen. I only move my head forward far enough so that I can get a glance.

The sight of a tall, broad-shouldered figure creeping from my open window causes me to duck back in an instant.

Shit.

Male. Larger than me. Wearing a backpack. I clutch the knife even tighter, formulating a plan in my mind, I have the upper hand in this situation. Whoever this person is, they haven't seen me yet. They may have a weapon, but if I can surprise them, then they may not have enough time to reach for it. If they're wounded, they may be too distracted by the pain to retaliate.