Think of the Devil

Fourteen

Soft light filtered through the windows into the apartment, casting a dim gray hue across the walls and floor. It was quiet, the noises of an early morning in Hell's Kitchen faintly audible. The only other sound inside was of two people breathing; the woman's deep and full and the man's short and restless. Seeking comfort, he inched closer to her in bed. His hand found hers in his sleep, taking her exposed wrist and holding tight.

As minutes passed, both pairs of breath became shallow, mimicking one another. The man was whimpering quietly, stress bleeding through his tone. The woman couldn't make a sound. They both watched the same dream in horror, panic coursing through their veins.

Gasping, the two startled awake simultaneously. Matt shot up from the bed, breathing quickly. As he took in his surroundings, Jane stayed closer to the mattress. She grabbed her head as it hovered over her pillow, trying to assuage the dull ache she'd awoken with. They both tried to control their breathing as they returned to reality, the dream already starting to drift away. Jane wouldn't be able to forget this one though. She could already feel it etching into her memory.

Matt stood and moved from the bed, pacing towards the window. His breath was harder to control, his synapses a bit skewed and taking longer to process things. He rested his head against the cool glass, the vibrations from the sounds outside amplified in his skull.

Jane slowly rose from the bed, sitting up as the sounds from the dream echoed in her own mind. She could feel his despair still, feel his pain and his remorse. Watching him at the window, she stretched her aching limbs. A chill in the air left goosebumps along her skin, drawing up to her wrist where warmth lingered. She rubbed it, realizing he must've held onto it when they'd been sleeping.

Across the room, Matt was finally coming down. He half-turned to her, hesitancy in his movement. "I'm sorry," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Her brows lowered in confusion. "For what?"

"For..." (touching you.) "For pulling you into my nightmare."

"I'm pretty sure you didn't do it on purpose."

"Does it matter?" He finally turned towards her completely, his shame pressing into her across the space. "It still shouldn't have happened."

She sighed. "You have this really bad habit of apologizing for things you couldn't control."

"Don't," he muttered. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't try to make me feel better. Not again," he said flatly. "I may apologize all the time, but you always make excuses for me. I should've just left you in bed and taken the couch." (I shouldn't have let myself get so comfortable around you.)

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Trust me, I'm not as forgiving as you think."

"Yeah? What haven't you forgiven me for?" His tone was sharp. "It's hard to believe you aren't Catholic for how gracious you've been." (How many of my mistakes have you forgiven? How can you?)

Her knees drew closer to her chest, her arms resting on top of them. "Matt, do you really want to yell at me right now?"

He paused, exhaling deeply. "No," he mumbled. "I don't."

They let the silence hold for a moment. He slowly made his way back to the bed, sitting at the end of it away from her. Rubbing his face, he tried to think of what to say. Nothing came to mind.

She filled the quiet instead. "I'd ask if you want to talk about it, but I'm sure you don't." She paused, chewing her cheek. "I still think we should."

His head was already shaking. "You're right. I don't want to talk about it."