Dead Boy Walking

13 - N I G H T M A R E

"I should get to bed," I whispered. I returned the glass into the sink and the carton into the fridge as if I hadn't been there.

We made our way upstairs quietly and every step groaned under the pressure of my weight. Kingsley remained fast and light on his feet, almost floating down the corridor and towards my room.

It was a buzzing quiet in the house but for once, I didn't feel so alone within it all.

I stripped off my torn dress and fell into my pyjamas. My skin felt sticky with the grime of the night, from Felix to Uncle Louis to Death. I made sure to roughly wipe it all off of my face, splashing the water and slathering on creams. I knew it wasn't possible to be free of it, that pressure against my chest still burdened me, for one. I didn't think anything would be able to rid me of that feeling, though.

Now I only had twenty-four-hours to figure this all out. I had to get my head straight and sort out all my conflicting emotions. I needed this wish.

Death had suggested that I was on the right track. Did he know who killed Kingsley? Surely not. Otherwise, I wouldn't have to be doing all this for him.

Kingsley was standing opposite the window when I arrived back from the bathroom. His stare was intent on the pictures sitting on my windowsill. I'd say it was the only colour in my room.

While he crouched down to look at them more closely, I grabbed the black pen from my desk and went over the letters on my wrist. Quincy Sinclair. Sometimes I got sick of seeing my name over and over again. I made sure the words hadn't faded and it was easy to see quickly and read with confidence.

"Is this your mum?" He asked.

"Uhh-yeah. Yeah, that's her," I answered and glanced to the photo I knew he was looking at. It was the only photo of her I had left. Dad had taken the others that used to litter our house and hid them somewhere in the attic. We tried to keep them up for a couple of days after her departure but it was just too painful. One day, I came home from school to see they'd all gone.

"You have her nose," he commented.

I smiled, "You think?"

"Yeah, that's it though."

I hummed and he finally turned to see me put the pen back onto my desk. Before I could move, he grabbed my forearm. Instead of surprising me, the cold that ran through his form seemed to fade into a buzz instantly.

"Why do you do this all the time?" He asked, running a finger over the ink.

With my free hand, I tucked a piece of hair out of my face and behind my ear. "It's actually not that big of a deal. I get these horrible nightmares that look incredibly real. It scares me shitless and properly screwed me up when I was little. So, my mum started writing my name on my forearm and she said whenever I'm scared of something, I should look at my wrist and see if the words are there. If they aren't then I know that I have to wake myself up and stay calm because it's only a dream."

My head throbbed and I wasn't sure if it was from the intense gaze Kingsley had set on me or the half bottle of champagne I necked earlier.

"Anyway, it just became a habit. I still get those dreams but don't sleep nearly as much as I should for them to scare me."

"Do you take anything for it?" He asked, his eyes soft.

"Nah," I brush him off. "I don't need anything, I'll be fine."

I knew he didn't believe me though and his gaze dropped to the purple bags under my hazel eyes, as if noticing them for the first time. I ignored him and instead climbed into my bed, clicking off my lamp. I rested on my back, eyes to the ceiling as I studied the patterns.