Asunder

Chapter 1 - Nothing

Consciousness.

It comes to me all at once, with the brutal breaking of a nightmare.

Though I'm awake, I can't seem to open my eyes, the images still crossing in and out of my vision, projecting in red flashes on the back of my eyelids. Images so atrocious I'm frozen in my sheets, images that multiply without end—

I open my eyes, ripping through the nightmare's final barrier.

I hold my breath, a paralyzing fear forbidding me to even more a finger. My heartbeat bangs frantically against my rib cage, and pain ripples throughout my chest with every beat. The air is heavy and dense and unbreathable, and my blood roars in my ears, loud and unforgiving. But I push through, lungs burning along with my heaving chest.

After a long while of grappling with myself for control, it becomes easier to breathe. And though I succeed in wiggling my fingers, freeing them from the fists they were tightly curled into, my mind is quiet, silent, not even a single thought daring to dart through after the nightmare. Like rabbits, afraid to come out of hiding, for fear of awaking the wolf.

Something like an hour passes, and I glean what I can in the dark, not daring to move my head. My room is still black, still empty. Empty of sound, of intruders, of any of the creatures still crawling in my head, having passed the threshold of subconsciousness into memory.

But—safe. I'm safe.

I sigh, and the sound breaks the spell the entire room was under, as if thrusting it back out from underneath dark waters. Sitting up does another great deal of good, too; the darkened silhouettes of furniture and books seem less threatening.

Still though, my heartbeat is a little too brutal, too shaky. And even the sound of my breathing is becoming sinister, the darkness claiming it, turning my own breath against me.

Slow. Take it slow, I tell myself in vain, raising a trembling hand to run through my hair, the roots now a bit damp with sweat.
A bit of light would be nice, not so much that my eyes ache, but... just enough to lighten the air.

Shifting tentatively, I bring my legs over the edge of the mattress. For a moment I stare down at the floor below, letting my legs swing lightly from the top bunk. The jump down is easy, at least for someone who has made it as many times as me. But in this darkness...

With the hitching of my breath in my throat, I push myself down from the bunk.

As soon as I land, my kneecap groans in pain at the hard impact.

Cringing at the loud thump of my landing, I bend down to clutch at my left knee.
I curse myself for being so stupid, so reckless, and listen carefully for any indication of movement beyond my room.
After a moment of silence confirms that no one has woken up, I straighten myself to walk to the fairy-light switch, which dangles behind the bottom bunk's headboard.

Biting my lip to keep from hissing at the pain sparking up with every step, I reach behind the mahogany. And as I struggle with the switch, a familiar scent reaches out toward me: the subtly sweet perfume of orange blossom, emanating from the bottom bunk's empty sheets.

The lights flicker on, indigo and green and orange, encapsulated in little white spheres, trailing from behind the headboard up the wall, and to the rectangular perimeter of the ceiling.

They don't do much; the fairy-lights don't bring about any confort within the tangles in my belly, and their light is too feeble to chase away more than a small amount of darkness near the ceiling. Still though, I can't help but stare, throat tight and dry, and something heavy begins pushing against my chest.

But it's the middle of the night. I'm awake. And I should sleep, I need to sleep. And the lights are on now.

There's no telling how long it'll be until I fall into unconsciousness again. How long I could lay there, with only the empty room and my thoughts. There's no telling which of those I could bring down with me into sleep, into a dream... a second attempt at rest might just be my ticket to another nightmare.

"I don't want to dream," I say into the dark, with the smallest hope that somehow my wish can be heard. "I just want sleep."

The feeling of a yawn rising to my lips prompts me back to the bed's ladder. With every step, I shove away the pain in my knee, the weight pushing down on my shoulders and chest. I pretend I don't feel them. Pretend they don't exist.

And, grateful for the exhaustion suddenly submerging my body, I lie down, under the cold sheets, and let my eyes flutter closed.

"I just want nothing." I whisper, and sleep graciously sweeps in to grant my wish.