Nora has been tormented by haunting nightmares for months, yet amidst the darkness, she begins to encounter a captivating girl whose presence mesmerises her. The girl's beauty is so striking that Nora finds herself longing to see her again in her dr...
❛ Four of Wands Reversed Lack of Support / Home Conflicts ❜ Nora
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SWEAT TRICKLES DOWN THE SIDE OF MY face as my body lies taut against the mattress, immobilised, unable to move or speak. The oppressive heat of the room clings to me, heightening my sense of entrapment. The sound of a woman's desperate plea, loud and shrill, reverberates through the room, a haunting echo that seems to pierce the very fabric of my mind.
I strain to open my eyes, but it's futile. I'm trapped in an invisible grip, paralysed by fear and dread. There's nothing physically binding me to the bed—no chains, no demons to possess me—just the relentless, invisible force of the nightmare that has tormented me for what feels like an eternity. Four hundred and sixty-two days of this unending torment, each night a repetition of the last, each plea and scream a reminder of my helplessness.
The darkness around me is thick and suffocating, pressing in on all sides. My heart races, a relentless pounding that only amplifies the fear. The woman's cries seem to swirl around me, growing louder, more frantic, as if they are coming from within my own mind. I can almost feel her panic, her despair, seeping into my own soul.
As I lie there, immobilised and paralysed, the room seems to close in, the walls pressing tighter with each passing second. I can't escape it. I can't escape the torment. The nightmare has become my reality, an unending loop of terror that grips me in its icy, unyielding embrace.
It's no use trying to fight it. My body won't release its hold unless I let the nightmare play out until the end. Physically, I'm nestled in the comfort of my queen-sized bed, surrounded by the familiar confines of what's supposed to be my room—a place that should be my sanctuary. But it hasn't felt safe for quite some time, not since the nightmares began.
In my head, the nightmare unfolds just as I remember it. Each night, it's almost the same, yet there's always a new detail that emerges, a fresh layer to the terror.
Mentally, my brain captures every horrifying essence of this recurring dream, so clear, so detailed, it's almost cinematic. I'm forced to watch as my mind projects the scene: the bright red and blue flashes of emergency lights, yellow fragments of tape marked with bold black letters, the same woman writhing in agony. Her cries grow louder and more desperate, and this time, I finally see her face, twisted in pain.
Tears begin to stream down the corners of my eyes, mingling with the sweat that trickles down my temples and pools in the crook of my neck, soaking into my shirt. The warmth of my tears and sweat forms a grotesque blend, making me feel as though I've been transported to the very depths of hell. The room, once a haven, now feels like a stifling, infernal trap, suffocating me with its oppressive heat and darkness.
The nightmare persists, stretching into the early light of dawn, its grip relentless. The terror however, finally breaks when I hear the familiar sound of my father's heavy footsteps booming up the staircase. My eyes snap open, and just like that, I'm pulled out of the nightmare.
There's no prince charming to awaken me from this long, harrowing sleep—just the harsh reality of my father's presence, slowly ascending the stairs.
His routine is as predictable as ever. He always comes home at this time, his footsteps a regular harbinger of my waking dread. I know it's time to move, to escape before he reaches my room. If I don't act fast, he'll find me and turn this already unbearable situation into a living nightmare.
My heart races at the thought of becoming a prisoner in my own house, subject to his whims and his oppressive presence. I can't endure any more torment. With practised urgency, I throw myself off the bed, the remnants of sweat and fear still clinging to me. I quickly change into a clean pair of clothes, my movements swift and deliberate. In one fluid motion, I scoop up my phone and car keys, a crucial part of my escape plan.
I head toward my bedroom window, the only route to freedom. The window creaks slightly as I open it, a sound that seems to echo louder in the quiet of the early morning. I climb out, carefully lowering myself to the ground. The crisp air hits me, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of my room, and I take a deep breath.
My escape route is set.
I decide to head to the one place that usually comes to mind: my best friend's house. It's a safe haven, a place where I can find solace away from the chaos and fear that loom over my home.
As I make my way down the familiar path to her house, I try to steady my racing heart. The streets are still quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the dawn, and I move quickly, driven by the urgent need for safety and comfort.
My best friend's house is just a few blocks away, and as I approach, a sense of relief begins to wash over me. It's not much, but it's a sanctuary from the nightmare that has become my reality.
When her house finally comes into view, I can already imagine the cold shower that awaits me—an invigorating escape from the remnants of the night's horrors. The thought of freshening up and enjoying the morning the way it's meant to be brings a flicker of excitement. I pull into her driveway, my heart still racing from the frantic drive but calming now with the promise of refuge. I park the car, unbuckle my seatbelt, and lock the vehicle behind me with a sense of finality.
As I walk toward the front door, my eyes catch sight of her standing there, a beacon of warmth and comfort. Her smile, radiant and genuine, instantly lifts the weight from my shoulders.
"Right on time," she says, her voice soothing.
"Hi," I manage to reply, though my voice is rough and my appearance is far from polished. I haven't brushed my teeth, my hair looks like a lion's frazzled mane, and my stomach rumbles with hunger. But she doesn't care. She envelops me in a hug, her arms wrapping around my shoulders with a warmth that contrasts sharply with the oppressive heat I left behind.
"I made your favourite," Taylor coos softly, her voice a gentle balm to my frayed nerves. "Breakfast awaits and so does a shower. There's a fresh towel in the bathroom, and anything else you need you can find under the sink." Her hands rub soothing circles in the small of my back, her presence a comforting anchor in the storm of my emotions. I let myself sink into her embrace, relishing the security and warmth, allowing myself a moment of respite before I pull away.
"Thank you," I say with a heartfelt smile, my voice tinged with gratitude.
"You don't have to say that," she replies, her tone affectionate but slightly teasing. It's a phrase that's become almost ritualistic, a form of acknowledgment for our arrangement ever since the nightmares became a persistent part of my life. Still, I say it because I genuinely appreciate her support.
"Come on," she says, guiding me gently toward the door, "let's get you ready for the day."
