Echo of Moths

seven | artuate

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seven
artuate | to tear limb from limb
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SUNLIGHT RIPS ME FROM DEATH like a shark capturing prey. Air surges into my lungs, swelling my chest with burning flames. I claw at my throat with nails chewed to the quick. Only gooseflesh meets my fingertips, clammy and supple and not at all wounded.

My eyes open to the plaster ceiling of the Bauers' guest bedroom. The fan above me whirls in hypnotizing circles that send a chill through my sweat-soaked pajamas.

Pajamas?

I sit up, throwing aside the sheet and comforter entangling my legs. Matching mint sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt cover my body, though I have no recollection of putting them on. Were they even in the container Locke gave me?

Wiping the sticky hair from my face, I pull my knees to my chest and focus on breathing until the fire leaves my lungs. My memories may be failing, but I don't recall ever having a nightmare so vivid-so real. Even during my eighteen months buried alive, fading in and out of death's grip, I never dreamed.

To be certain, I peer into the wide mirror atop the room's wooden armoire, twisting my neck side to side for the best view. Not a single mark. My wrists are just as pristine, save for the occasional scar that's existed since my rescue.

I can't stay in this room. While the blankets call to me with a promise of hiding in their embrace, safe from whatever world lies beyond, I can't be alone with the vivid dream whirring through my mind.

When I finally meander downstairs, hair still dripping from a rushed shower, the house is quiet. Teagan lays under the coffee table with a coloring book, swinging his legs while he scribbles purple on Superman's fingernails. He grins as I pass through the living room. We exchange a quick wave before he returns to his outside-the-lines masterpiece.

"Good morning, hon!" Eileen's voice sails from the kitchen before I reach the threshold.

My returned smile is genuine-especially once I catch a whiff of the blueberry pancakes and sausage on the counter. One plate waits for me as Eileen scrubs the rest of their dishes at the sink. It's nearly noon, according to the microwave clock.

I make what I hope isn't too noticeably wide of a berth around Sylas, who sits eerily still at the breakfast table. His eyes fixate on the window, fingers digging into the off-white tablecloth. Small holes fill the lace around his hands. Finally, his pinky forms a new one, and he pulls it out before clutching a new spot.

As I pick up the fork beside my plate, I nod my thanks to Eileen.

A sharp whistle sends the fork bouncing from my grasp. It clatters to the counter, and I scramble to catch it before it can fall on the floor.

Eileen shakes off her soapy hands. "Oh, hon, I am so sorry! Let me close the window." She reaches up and pulls the window shut before resubmerging her hands in the dishpan. "That was Locke. He's been outside most of the morning while we keep Teagan entertained."

I nearly furrow my brows at her use of "we" when her second half sits still as a statue. The only entertainment I can see Sylas providing is when his trance breaks and he finds a deadly weapon-which I don't think is on Locke's list of approved five-year-old activities.

Small sock feet pad from the living room. I look over my shoulder just in time for Teagan to grab onto the doorway and come to a sliding stop.

"Maw-Maw," he whines, dragging out each syllable as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. "When is Dad coming back in? I wanna play with Hawthorn."