"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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I have nightmares about drowning.
About dying the same brutal way Josh did, with waterlogged lungs, scrambling and gasping for a breath he would never take. Sometimes I'm alone; sometimes he's there with me. Sometimes he tries to help, wading into the water and offering anchors in the form of flailing arms and strangled screams, none of which I can ever get a real hold on.
Other times, like tonight, he doesn't do anything at all.
Just stands at the edge of the lake and watches, motionless, his eyes glazed over like he can't even see me. Then my head dips below the surface and my sharp inhale draws murky water into my lungs and everything goes black.
I awake with a gasp: a short one at first, because I'm expecting to inhale two lungs full of water, but then another much slower when all that floods in is cool, air-conditioned air. I'm not in the lake at all. I'm in my dorm room, twisted in two-week-old bedsheets and covered in sweat that has seeped through the mattress. The clock on my bedside table tells me it's a few minutes past three a.m..
The other half of the room is empty. Even though I've been elated about exactly that since arriving back on campus, right now, this nightmare has me so rattled that it no longer feels like a blessing at all.
I throw back the covers and slide my feet into my slippers. Throwing on a hoodie over my pajama top and shorts, I reach for the door handle and head down the hall.
The communal bathroom is empty. The soundproofing isn't as good here and it's closer to the stairwell than my bedroom, so I can hear faint shrieking laughter from what sounds like drunk freshmen on one of the lower floors. I hope that's where they stay; the last thing I need right now is to bump into some overexcited, intoxicated girls and have to make an attempt at conversation.
What I need is to calm down and go back to bed.
There are four sinks side by side, each one headed by a slightly grimy mirror. It's where I catch the first glimpse of my reflection—and what I see isn't pretty. I've always been pale, but now all the color has drained from my face, emphasizing every blemish and leaving me as white as a sheet. The circles under my eyes are the shade of fresh bruises, and my dark-brown curls are matted from tossing and turning.
I look like I've seen a ghost.
Maybe I have.
I turn on the faucet, bending over the basin to splash water on my face. The cold is welcome against my clammy skin, and I stay hunched over for a few seconds longer than necessary, before finally bringing myself to straighten up.
And in doing so, I catch sight of the one thing I don't want to see.
Through the tiny, health-and-safety-permitted crack in the bathroom window: the lake.
This time, it isn't a figment of my subconscious imagination. It's real: a giant black mass in the middle of campus, hidden away from the streetlights, darkened by the shadows of the trees. I've taken the long walk to campus every day for the last two weeks to avoid going past it, but here, it still manages to send a chill down my spine from afar.
