I woke up to a pounding headache, the kind that made you want to curse out loud and crawl back under the covers. My eyes fluttered open, the morning light streaming through the curtains hitting me like a personal attack, like I've wronged it or something. My head felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it, and my body was stiff, like I'd been wrestling with something in my sleep.
It didn't take much to figure out why. The nightmare. The same damn nightmare.
I rubbed my temples, trying to knead out the dull ache. My fingers brushed against my scalp, and I winced slightly. It wasn't just my head that hurt; it was my entire body, as though the dream had reached through my subconscious and physically wrung me out.
I threw off the blanket and sat up slowly, dragging my legs over the edge of the bed. The room spun slightly, and I had to pause to steady myself. My hand instinctively went to my palm, tracing the faint scar there.
That damn dream. It had been weeks since the first time it happened, but it didn't lost the fear, the confusion it always instilled in me. The worst part? It didn't even make sense. It always didn't make sense.
I hated how it clung to me even now, hours after I'd woken up.
I stood up, the cold floor under my feet jolting me slightly back to reality. My reflection in the mirror caught my eye as I walked past. I looked exactly how I felt—like hell. My hair was a mess, tangled and matted from tossing and turning all night. My skin looked pale, almost sallow, with dark circles under my eyes that not even the best concealer in the world could fix. I looked terrible. The fuck!
"Great," I muttered, dragging myself to the bathroom.
I splashed cold water on my face. As I grabbed a towel to dry off, I glanced at the scar again. I still haven't been able to remember how I got it. It had always been there, as far as I could recall, but nights like this made me wonder. Was it connected somehow? Did it mean something?
"Get it together, Blakely," I muttered to myself, tossing the towel onto the counter.
The headache was still there, the persistent throb also affected my eyes. I walked back into the bedroom, the soft carpet muffling my steps, and sank back onto the bed. My phone was on the nightstand, its screen lighting up with a single notification. I ignored it, leaning back against the headboard and closing my eyes for a moment.
I knew I wouldn't be able to shake this feeling all day.
Almost immediately the door creaked open, and I groaned, pressing my palms against my face. Could I not get a single moment of peace? There's always that wretched human waiting to ruin my day. So, of course, today of all days, when everything felt like crap, someone had to come barging in.
I let my hands drop to my sides and tilted my head just enough to peek at the doorway. The moment I saw her, I sighed heavily, my head falling back against the headboard. Of course. My mother.
She stood there with her hands on her hips, her usual look of superiority plastered across her face. She scanned the room, probably cataloging every little thing out of place so she could lecture me about it later.
I stared at her, unbothered, letting my expression flatten into a bored look. "What do you want?" I asked, my tone carrying just enough edge to let her know I wasn't in the mood.
She didn't answer right away, which was typical. Instead, her gaze lingered on the pile of clothes draped over my chair, the half-empty glass of water on my nightstand, and the fact that my bed looked like it had been through a hurricane. Her lips pressed together in that tight, disapproving line she'd perfected over the years.
"I don't understand how you can live like this, Elizabeth," she finally said.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. "It's called minding my business, maybe you should try it," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her brows furrowed, and I could see the annoyance flicker in her eyes. She wasn't here for a casual chat, that much was obvious.
"Don't get smart with me," she snapped, stepping further into the room. "You know how important this weekend is, and yet you're lying around like some—"
"Like some what?" I interrupted, sitting up straighter and crossing my arms. "Go on, say it."
Her mouth opened, then closed, as if she was reconsidering her words. Instead, she huffed and turned her attention to the curtains, pulling them open with a dramatic flourish. Sunlight poured into the room, making me squint against the sudden brightness.
"Really?" I muttered, throwing a hand over my eyes.
"You should be up and getting ready," she continued, ignoring me completely. "There are a million things that need to be done, and I can't have you sulking in here while the rest of us are actually productive, you signed up for the spa day with Frankie didn't you? Yet here you are. Such disappointment"
"Productive doing what, exactly?" I asked, my tone dry, staring at my nails. I do need the manicure that came with the spa activity. "Micromanaging Frankie's party like it's the Met Gala?"
She whirled around to face me, her eyes narrowing. "Don't start."
I held up my hands in mock surrender, the corners of my lips twitching into a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She let out another frustrated sigh, her hands dropping from her hips to cross over her chest. "Just… try to act like you care, for once," she said, her voice softer now, but no less exasperated.
I didn't respond, just leaned back against the headboard and stared at her. The uncomfortable silence stretched between us, until she finally turned on her heel and walked to my closet, muttering something under her breath.
There was a loud clang, many more other sounds I could name, and her heels clicking ok the floor as she walked out of my closet holding my cheerleading uniform like it was the trashiest trash she'd ever seen.
"Elizabeth Blakely Torres!" She glared at me. "What the fuck is this?"
Did she just cuss?
Oh! bless my heart.