Marcie had the audacity to act as if I were drunk the night I proposed—yet her behavior last night left her no room to judge. I don't know how many bottles she downed before I arrived, but I'm certain my presence stopped it. Someone had to put an end to the chaos I witnessed at the first bar: spilled drinks, shots slammed one after another.
Maybe that's why she kept edging away from me when we moved to the second location. She tells me what kind of man she likes, then changes the rules the moment I give her exactly what she asked for. I don't have the energy to sort it out—though I catch myself circling the thought in a loop.
After washing my face three times, I glance at the little lamp by my bed—the one already flickering—and curse under my breath as I check the plug. It's no ordinary lamp; it's my sun lamp, my safeguard. Without it, the nightmares sharpen, grow louder, almost too real.
I think about emailing Ms. Fallon—or even Marcie—to bring me the spare from my office. Instead, I tell myself I can toughen it out.
"Nothing another melatonin gummy can't handle," I mutter, popping a purple one.
But I'm wrong. The moment REM drags me under, the nightmare slams into me. It's the worst I've had in months.
I'm twelve again, wearing the yellow shorts my mother sewed by hand. I step outside our East Coast home into a street swallowed by shadows. I've always feared the dark, but in this dream my father orders me out. So I go. The trees whip in the rising wind, and suddenly I'm sprinting down a filthy alley. Figures burst after me, chasing with inhuman speed. Then they catch me—giant women with long, stringy hair. Their hands clamp down, shoving me into a suitcase.
That's where it usually ends. But not tonight. The suitcase unzips into a suffocating house filled with faceless people. They prod my skin, tug at my hair. Terror floods so violently I'm sure my heart will burst. It feels real—so real I know I must be sleepwalking through my Beverly Hills home. And I am. The dream ends with me bolting into the backyard, body in motion even as my mind claws for wakefulness. When I finally wrench myself awake, I'm crouched in my closet, fists knotted in my own clothes. Relief comes—but weak, fleeting. My head falls forward, eyes closing again, because the truth is unbearable. This can't continue. I'm a grown man for crying out loud. Who could I tell without ridicule? Who would understand that the dread lingers, clings, shadows me even through daylight hours? I try to shake it off. But it follows me into the workspace.