Sleep is a traitor.
It pulls me under only to ambush me with echoes of gunfire, the smell of burning rubber, and the sound of bodies dropping and dropping and dropping.
The dead surround me. Their blood coats my hands, it chokes me. I'm drowning underneath it all and wrapped around my neck is Malachai's shadowy hands, holding me down, threatening to unmake me.
When I jolt awake for the third time, my heart trying to batter its way out of my chest, I accept that I will never sleep properly again.
The clock on the bedside table glows at 3:47 AM. The room is quiet, large and soaked with the scent of him. It's nearly as unbearable as my nightmares.
I slip out of the bed, taking note of all the aches my body contains as I creep to the door. The plush carpet muffle my steps.
