Two plates of food sat on the table before me. A discarded knitting project lay by my feet, but rather than working on it, I tugged anxiously at the end of my ponytail. I tried to see the time on the watch that rested between the plates, but the more I looked, the more the numbers seemed to blur.
I jumped when my apartment door opened, the sound crashing into my senses. Rather than my usual excitement, I felt forlorn. Chris closed the door, entering our small space. Weariness sat heavily on his shoulders as he turned to me with a sad smile.
"Hi," I said breathlessly. A warm feeling bloomed in my chest as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink before joining me at the table.
He glanced down at the spam-on-bread concoction. It clearly tempted him, but he took the time to look back up at me. "Hey."
"How was your day?" I asked, feeling the familiar deep ache of loneliness that settled in me most days.
"Fine," he answered. His tone was warm, but he was withdrawn again, unwilling to share. "Uneventful."
I watched as he took a bite of the food, basking in the small amount of pride I took in sneaking him a slightly bigger portion. "Mine too," I said unprompted. "I knitted another sock today."
"Mmm." He took another bite not meeting my eyes.
"You never told me anything," I whispered. As though under a spell, Chris kept eating. He took more bites than there was bread. It gave me the courage to continue. "Why didn't you tell me anything? There were so many times you could have told me how bad things were. You never said anything."
He kept eating.
"You kept me ignorant. You left me trapped in a box, completely unprepared for what was coming. You knew. You knew and said nothing."
He took another bite.
"Maybe... maybe I could have saved you. If you had just said something. Anything!" I was breathing hard by the time I was done, emotion strangling my throat.
Carefully, he set his food down, letting it become untouched once again. When he looked up at me, his eyes showed nothing. "I wanted to protect you."
I lost my breath. Anger rolled through me in a way I'd never experienced. Not with Chris – not ever. "Protect me?" I repeated, utterly aghast.
"I didn't want you to worry."
"That's what you always said but you never heard me. I told you so many times – I was always worried!" I was too angry to cry but my chest ached fiercely. "You." My voice shook. "You did this to us. To me. You left me trapped to ease your own worries and fears. It was never about me. You didn't want to tell me anything because then it would have felt too real to you."
He smiled sadly at me. For once, I didn't see it as kind but rather, condescending. "But you are okay. You're doing fine."
I slapped my hands down on the table, partially standing as I did. "I'm not okay. Nothing about this is okay!"
Chris looked surprised. I'd never talked to him in such a way before.
"How can I be okay?" I slumped back into my chair, looking at the bloody hand prints I'd left on our clean table. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You're doing fine."
"I've lost everything." I could feel my scar throbbing on my chest. To resist touching it, I balled my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms. "I lost you."
"You'll survive it." A tinge of humor was in his voice, though it sounded sad.
I sneered, unable to meet his eyes. "Will I?"
"Haven't you been?"
I blinked in surprise and my gaze snapped up from to table to search his. He looked at me with the love I remembered.
"You know I'm still mad at you," I told him.
"I know."
"But you aren't real."
His smile was soft as he answered. "No, I'm not."
The last of my anger melted away. "We should have talked more – about the things that mattered."
He nodded, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges. "We should have."
"I miss you."
"I know."
I stood from the table to take our dishes to the sink. I made it one step when something grabbed ahold of my ankle. Unable to stop my own momentum, I fell to the floor sending our dishes flying. I heard them shatter as I turned back to see what had tripped me.
The man with the dented skull stared back at me from under the table. His unblinking eyes held mine as he clutched my ankle with all he had.
I tried to scream but the sound got caught in my throat. I looked to Chris for help but he'd gone back to eating a meal. He was completely oblivious to my struggle as I started to get dragged by the man under the table whose tight grip pulled me closer.
"Kate."
I heard the voice, but I was helpless to respond. I was choking on my own fear as the dead man yanked at me again.
"Kate," the voice hissed.
Suddenly, I felt pressure on my shoulder and it was as though I had been shocked awake. Jolting upright, I clung to my chest feeling my raised scar over my thundering heart.
"Hey," Ian whispered, still holding my shoulder. "Hey, you good?"
I felt sick. I was so violently torn out of my dream that even as my mind cleared, it stuck to me like molasses.
"I'm good," I answered when I regained control over my tongue. A tremor ran through me and I felt Ian squeeze my shoulder tighter.
"Nightmare?" he asked.
"You could say that."
Ian nodded in understanding and let go of my shoulder. "Want someone to cover your shift?"
I shifted into a better sitting position, checking that I had both my pistol and ice pick. Ian still held Carlos's rifle. "No, I'm good," I told him. "Has anyone woken up Lewis yet?"
"Yeah, he's already taken my spot in the study."
I didn't like that. It was too soon to trust him with being at the back of the house where he could much more easily slip out in the dead of night. At least at the front of the house, he'd have to go through the front door where the sound of it opening or the change in temperature was likely to wake someone up.
Ian must have noticed my expression as his became amused. "You can switch with him."
"I think I will." I snatched up my backpack. It held the last of our food and I had no plans of letting it out of my sight.
Ian took my place on the floor by the fire as I stood. He tucked his hands behind his neck as he got comfortable, keeping the rifle and his knife as close as he dared beside him. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I'm good," I stated, steeling my mind for a long night ahead left alone with my thoughts.
Hurrying out of the room, I made my way to the back of the house, not wanting to leave the front without a lookout for long.
Lewis was sitting by the glass doors he'd once forcibly entered, staring out into the darkness. He must have heard my approach because he turned as I got closer, giving me a smile in greeting. "What you doing back here?" he asked.
"Would you mind switching with me?" I kept my tone friendly, not wanting to show any distrust. "I could use some time to myself."
If Lewis was suspicious of my intentions, he didn't show it. His smile grew. "You sure? You won't miss the fire?"
"I'm sure."
"Well, then you don't have to ask me twice." He practically hopped out of his chair. In his hand, I noticed he carried a screwdriver. I wasn't sure who had given it to him or when but I figured they must have not wanted him to be unarmed on watch.
He started for the door when I called out to him. "Thanks," I said, moving to take the seat he no longer occupied.
I missed seeing his expression as he responded, "Sure thing."
Once alone, I realized how much I actually needed the quiet. I needed to process my dream. Seeing Chris so vividly had thrown me off. He had never visited me in my dreams before – at least not like that. It was as though he'd visited me so I would finally have the chance to say all the things I'd never been able to say before.
And can never say again.
An hour must have passed with my mind being consumed by my dream. I picked over everything that was said. It was true that I'd never been so openly angry at Chris before. During our time together, I had always found it easy to avoid fights. Neither one of us wanted to have them.
I couldn't understand why it was after he was gone that I found that there were things I couldn't let go of. The truth was that I was mad at him – and I hated myself for it.
I wanted him to rest in peace. I wanted to only think of him with love. But, I just couldn't.
Due to the state of the world, I found myself unable to hide my true feelings or spend time appeasing anyone else. There was no time to be anything but authentic. However, I didn't know where that left me.
I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. It seemed too early to switch shifts but I'd been so lost in thought that time had become almost meaningless. I turned to the doorway and was surprised to see that Lewis was already standing in it.
Slightly confused, I gave him a half-hearted smile but he just stared back.
"Everything okay?" I asked. "Do you need me up front?"
He didn't answer. He simply stared back and I began to wonder if he was also lost in thought.
"Lewis?"
Nothing could have prepared me for how fast he charged. He lunged at me, tackling me out of the chair so the two of us hit the ground hard.
"Give it to me," he snarled in a voice I'd never heard before.
I struggled and fought him as hard as I could but I had been totally unprepared. He had me on my belly, pinned to the floor beneath him. I tried to buck him off but he took the opportunity to whack me in the back of my head with what had to have been his fist.
He began to tug at my backpack, trying to wrench it off me.
No.
As soon as I realized his intentions, I began to fight with all that I had, gathering the air in my lungs to scream.
Before I could so much as let out a squeak, he had my ponytail in his hand and yanked my head back, pulling as far as my neck would allow. I felt the cold, sharp press of metal against the back of my neck as he pushed what felt like a screwdriver against my flesh.
"Want to keep fighting?" he asked, digging the head of the screwdriver into my skin.
I let out a hiss of pain. I knew in my gut that if I kept struggling he'd kill me. What I didn't know was whether or not he let me live after he got what he wanted.
I wanted to ask him why. I was reeling, blindsided by his betrayal. We had let him in despite every reason not to. Now, he was pulling my neck so taut that I doubted I could make much sound let alone form a question.
"Just give me the bag." He pushed the screwdriver deeper and I felt it pierce my skin.
He's going to kill me.
He wasn't going to let me live. Even if I complied, he couldn't risk it. I couldn't help but let out a small whimper of fear as he pulled my ponytail again, making my scalp burn.
Without warning, he let go of my ponytail, letting my head fall to the floor. He kept his screwdriver on my neck as he began to force the straps of my backpack off my shoulders and down my arms.
I'm going to die.
Once my bag was free from my body, he backed off a bit, giving me a moment to breathe. It didn't last long, however, as he quickly readjusted his position so his knee landed on the center of my back. He pressed down with all his weight as he leaned over me, forcing the air from my lungs.
With my nose pressed to the ground, I felt him drag the screwdriver from the back of my neck to the side of it, scraping my skin the whole way. I tried to thrash, but it caused the tip of the screwdriver to puncture the side of my neck, making me freeze.
I couldn't take a breath in. It was impossible between his weight and my fear. My terror held me rigid as I prepared for what was next. He started to pull my hair again when suddenly his weight shifted. Over my own panting, I heard him make something between a gasp and a grunt.
That was when I heard the unmistakable sound of metal entering flesh. It was a soft thud with a wet slurp as the weapon went deep.
Lewis groaned before he toppled off of me. I sputtered for air, sucking it into my deprived lungs. Hacking and coughing, I scuttled away from him, curling onto my side in a pathetic attempt to protect myself.
Lewis was on the floor only a few feet from me. He clutched his side with his face scrunched in agony.
Before I could fully process what was happening, I saw Ian move to stand above him with a knife in hand. I watched in a kind of awe as Ian brought his knife down again into Lewis's back. He did it two more times, only stopping when he was sure Lewis had stopped moving.
I slowly sat up, putting my hand to my neck to feel my wound. Noticing my movement, Ian turned to face me just as I started to cry.
I tried to stop, but it felt as though it was an involuntary reaction to the shock rather than an emotional experience. Helplessly, I sobbed through my still-burning lungs.
Ian knelt next to me and, as I looked into his haunted eyes, I saw him trying to process what had transpired. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was that I hadn't been more prepared. But I couldn't get the words out.
Ian pulled me forward, letting me rest my head on his shoulder as I grasped at his sleeve. "I got you," he assured me. "I got you."