DEATH'S BRIDE

STYGIAN.

He came back.

It's ironic how this phrase keeps replaying in my head every time I wake up these days.

He's always there. In my dreams. But when I wake up, I can still feel him touching my skin, rubbing my breasts, brushing against my lips, teasing my pussy under my panties, with his hands, his lips...
He's always here, and I remember every touch as if he marked me, as if he corrupted my brain so I won't think of anything else but him.

Before him, I barely remembered dreaming to the point that for a long time, I thought I was one of those who don't dream and now, I do remember and I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing.

I remember very clearly the moment it all started.

Two months ago, I thought death had finally come for me after three failed suicide attempts. This time, I truly believed it, and I could've sworn my time had come. I thought I recognized death when I felt a cold touch against my skin but once again, it didn't work.

When I woke up, I was in those now familiar blue sheets, in a blue dress, trapped between those blue walls that made my head spin. I have memorized this room and once I opened my eyes, I knew that that couldn't be heel. I was still alive. In bad shape but alive and in a hospital.

That night, I had my first erotic dream with the man with the dark face.
A cold hand had brushed my face, and I opened my eyes. I stared into the abyss of his eyes for what felt like an eternity, and for a moment, he didn't move. We stayed as still as statues, staring at each other, his cold hand against my cheek.

Then, that hand slowly descended to rest on my neck, sending shivers through my whole body. Another hand gently lifted my gown and slowly moved between my thighs.

He was only touching me with his hands, yet I was ready to come. My wetness was throbbing rapidly, and my lower belly tightened so painfully it took my breath away. If he touched my panties, I knew an intense orgasm would shake me. But he didn't. His hand continued its slow exploration of my body as if he wanted to memorize every inch.

I lay on the hospital bed, unable to stop staring into the abyss under his black hood, which seemed to have no face, while
feeling his touches a thousand times more intense than any natural touch.
And in the end, I came just from the friction on my breasts.

It all felt so real that when I woke up in the morning, I still felt his hands on my body and his gaze burning my skin.
If it weren't for that faceless detail, something that only exists in dreams, I would've believed I'd been assaulted during the night. Yeah, regardless of whether I enjoyed it or not, I hadn't consented.

Since that night, those dreams have returned constantly. I dream of this stranger who touches me until I come before disappearing as mysteriously as he arrived.

I must seem shallow, but I look forward to each night, when sleep hits and he comes. I wait for him and his caresses.

Every time I wake up, I wonder if this isn't my subconscious telling me that I don't have much sex and maybe I should be laid but since him, my body craves only his touch.

Ridiculous, right? Maybe! But before him, I had never experienced an orgasm. Not that I'm a virgin. It's just that nowadays, it's hard to find a guy who cares enough to search for that clitoris right between a girl's legs.

So if I'm condemned to only climax in my dreams, I might as well enjoy it before even those disappear.

With a sigh, I push myself out of bed and go take a cold bath.

When I come downstairs ready for school, my parents look at me like they're seeing a ghost, but they stay quiet, afraid to say something wrong. That's maybe the benefit of being depressed and antisocial. People leave you alone. Well, not really, not everyone! There are always those who think they are smart enough to feel what you do and make it their job to "save you".

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," I say with fake enthusiasm.

I grab a bottle of juice, a pack of biscuits and give them each a kiss on the cheek.

"You're going to school?" my mother asks, her voice hesitant.
"Hmm," I say, taking a sweater and an umbrella.

I see them exchange a puzzled look before my mother smiles.

"You don't want us to drive you?" my father asks.
"No, it's fine."
"Have a good day, darling," my mother calls behind me as I slam the door.

I know it's going to be uncomfortable in class after two months of absence, especially since my failed death made headlines. Perks of having rich parents, I guess! I just hope everyone keeps their distance like they always have. I don't want their pity or misplaced empathy.

I don't know how to make friends and people don't like me enough to approach me. Girls call me an arrogant bitch, and guys... either I am interested enough to sleep with them, or I don't care about them and I don't let them near me. In either case, they end up leaving.

Everyone knows I'm antisocial. So, at 22, I've never had any friends. If it always worries my parents when I was little and still bothers them now that I'm an adult, I'm grateful they rarely interfere and leave me alone.

"Miss HAYA!" a voice shouts from across the parking lot as I enter the school grounds.
Uh-oh! If I was hoping for a discreet return, that's gone.

The French teacher, whose name I don't remember except that we call him Oreille because of his favorite line he throws at every student he looks at, "Souviens-toi, si tu as besoin d'une oreille, je suis là" (Remember, if you need an ear, I'm here); is rushing toward me, and naturally, many eyes have now landed on me thanks to his shout.
Out of courtesy, I stop and wait for him to catch up. He gives me a hug, to which I don't respond, then awkwardly shakes both my hands.

"I'm so glad you're back with us," he says, trying to pull me in for another hug, but I step back.

His eyes are bright with tears, and I frown. He can't really be this happy because I'm back, right? I've never spoken to him, I'm not a good student, and I don't even participate in class.

"Don't you think you're overreacting?" I can't help but say.

He gives a strange laugh, and I can't help but think he'd make a good psychopath in a movie.
He pats my shoulder and gives me a big smile.
"Come on, I'll see you in class in a few hours. Remember, if you need an ear, I'm here."
He walks away, and I become aware again of the odd, supposedly discreet stares everyone is giving me.
For the love of all that's dear to me, I hate being looked at. I hate attention in general, but it's worse when I'm this exposed. My hands get clammy, my head spins, and I can hardly breathe. I'm clearly about to have a panic attack, and that makes me panic even more. Not here, not in front of all these people!
It's at that moment that I feel it. Cold and
firm on my clenched right fist, it feels like a human hand trying to comfort me, making me think of my nocturnal man. It's so sudden that I jump, and the sensation disappears as abruptly as it came.
I quickly turn to my right, but no one's there. I scan the area, but there's only the usual hustle and bustle of the campus.

Fortunately, no one's staring at me
anymore, and I feel like I've returned to the invisible bubble I always live in, especially since I only ever dress in black.

My hand still burns from the cold sensation I just felt. I rub the back of my right hand with my left thoughtfully.

I'm becoming paranoid, and it scares me. Especially now that in my head, a voice is screaming that he was there; so loudly I feel nauseous.
I take my phone out of my bag and quickly text my mom.

"Can you get me an appointment with your therapist, please?”