ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ: ἈΠΟΚΆΛΥΨΙΣ

01

I gasped flinging the cozy sheets away from my pajama-clad body in a frenzy. My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to me like cobwebs.

Beads of sweat trickled down my face, stinging my eyes, and soaking the edges of my collar. I rubbed my hands over my damp forehead, willing my erratic breathing to steady. The room was dim, the faint glow from the cheap plastic alarm clock casting soft shadows on the walls.

I turned my head toward the bedside table, its surface marred by scratches and faint coffee stains, and squinted at the glowing red numbers. 5:21. 

Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep.

I sighed deeply, the sound heavy with frustration, and leaned back against the headboard. The exhaustion clung to me like a second skin, sinking deeper into my bones with every passing second. I swung my legs off the bed, shoving my feet into worn bedroom slippers. 

Dragging myself into the cramped adjoining bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. The mirror reflected a stranger—hollow eyes with dark circles, chapped lips, and thinning hair that fell in sad clumps. I could hardly recognize myself.

Sleepless nights had transformed me into this specter. When I did manage to sleep, my dreams—more like nightmares—were haunted by dead relatives repeating the same ominous phrases.

"Keep running."
"Don't let the crows get you."
"Don't let the dead consume you."

What were they warning me to run from? Where was I supposed to go?

I had no answers, only a desperate, clawing need for the nightmares to end. I would have done anything—absolutely anything—to silence them. Sleep had become a rare, fragile gift, stolen away either by the haunting visions that plagued me or the suffocating weight of college exams looming over my head.

My days blurred together in an unyielding, monotonous rhythm: Wake up. Go to school. Go to work. Come home. Study. Repeat. Each task felt like another brick in the wall closing in around me.

But every day, I felt myself slipping closer to the edge, teetering precariously between reality and the sinister echoes of my dreams. The relentless fear burrowed deep, eating away at my sanity bit by bit. It was becoming harder and harder to tell where the nightmares ended and reality began—or if there was even a line between them anymore.

As I splashed more water on my face, trying to wash away the fatigue, I couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching, waiting.

My stomach growled loudly, practically begging for food. Careful not to wake my mother or six-month-old brother, I tiptoed downstairs. As I entered the kitchen, the rich, tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon hit me, making my mouth water.

"Mum?" I whispered, surprised to see her at the stove. "What are you doing up this early?"

She turned with a soft smile, her eyes glinting with a touch of mischief. "Today's Martin's birthday, remember," she said, her voice unusually chipper. "I thought I'd make him breakfast in bed."

I rolled my eyes at the mention of my stepfather's name. Martin. The man never missed an opportunity to remind me I wasn't his, always slipping in subtle jabs to make sure I felt like an outsider in my own family. And I made sure he knew the feeling was mutual.

Life without Martin would be so much simpler. Even Mum had to know that, though she'd never admit it. Denial was her go-to coping mechanism.

"He never does that for you," I muttered under my breath, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

"What was that?" Mum asked her tone deceptively sweet but with just enough of an edge to promise a lecture if I wasn't careful.

I squinted at her, deliberating. The last thing I needed was another round of "Martin is our family, and you should try harder to get along with him." 

Instead, I forced a polite smile and settled on the safer option.

"That's nice, Mum."

She gave me a long, searching look, her expression hovering between suspicion and resignation. Then she turned back to the stove, brushing off my comment like she always did when the tension simmered too close to the surface.

Despite my feelings toward Martin, I couldn't deny one thing: my mother was an incredible cook. The aroma of breakfast filled the kitchen, a tantalizing blend of comfort and torment. It pulled at memories of simpler times—back before we'd moved here, before Martin was part of our lives.

Back then, she had just secured a work permit and started as an assistant at Holdings Pharma, a big-time pharmaceutical company. It wasn't glamorous, but it was hers. She was making her own money, keeping a roof over our heads, and putting food on the table for me.

She'd been through so much—losing nearly everything and still finding the strength to rebuild. For a long time, she had been my role model, the kind of person I aspired to be.

But now, with Martin in the picture, everything felt different. That version of her—the strong, independent woman I admired—seemed like a distant memory.

I opened the fridge and took out some fruit I had recently bought, hoping to distract myself from the tension simmering just below the surface.

"I dreamt about Grandma," I started, breaking the silence as I took a seat at the counter.

My mother sighed, pushing a plate of eggs my way. "This is the fifth dream, Ty. I think you should start seeing Dr. Morris again," she suggested, referring to my therapist.

I had stopped seeing her a while ago, feeling like a burden more than anything else. Therapy was a bunch of self-indulgent bullshit, Dr Morris never gave me any answers just more questions.

I debated the idea, knowing deep down that she was right. At this point, I would do anything to get even an hour of peaceful sleep. "Make the appointment for me, please, Mum," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, her eyes softening with relief as she returned to cooking. I stared down at the pale, scrambled eggs on my plate, my appetite all but vanished. Picking up my fork, I forced myself to take a bite, but the food felt bland and tasteless on my tongue.

I knew it wasn't my mother's fault, but my taste buds refused to acknowledge her cooking skills. I swallowed with difficulty, setting my fork down and choosing to focus on the sliced fruit instead.

"You need to eat more, Ty. You're getting so thin, I can see your ribs," Mum said, her voice laced with concern as she glanced back at me.

I stared at the fruit, fingers clenching the edge of the plate. I ignored her, feeling a lump of shame rise in my throat as I stood up and carried the plate with me to my bedroom.

The constant gnawing anxiety had stolen my hunger, leaving me trapped in a cycle of exhaustion and fear. I hated feeling this way, but I couldn't help it. And that only made me hate it more.

As I trudged up the stairs, my mind was a storm of thoughts. The nightmares, the exhaustion, the weight of my mother's worry—it all pressed down on me, making each step feel like a climb up a mountain. I closed my bedroom door behind me, the soft click echoing in the quiet house.

I flopped onto my bed, the fruit in my hand suddenly unappealing. Staring at the ceiling, I tried to calm my racing mind.

My mother's suggestion about seeing Dr. Morris again lingered in my thoughts.