Nightmares from Within
COPYRIGHT 201
3 © JESSICA PRINCE
All rights reserved.
Edited by Becky Johnson at
Hot Tree Edits
Formatted by Jovana Shirley at
Unforeseen Editing
Cover Design by Meredith Blair at
Author’s Angels
This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance between persons living and dead, establishments, events or location is entirely coincidental.
Visit my Facebook page at
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorJessicaPrince
To Mom,
for always being there no matter what.
This book is for you.
I can
’t breathe.
I panic as my lungs beg for air. I reach out to grab hold of the hands around my neck, but nothing is there. I try and try, but all I feel is my own cold, clammy skin. Someone’s hands are there; I know it. The grip is so strong that fingernails are digging into my skin, but my hands come in contact with absolutely nothing but my own flesh. My eyes are open, but it serves no purpose. I can’t see. Everything is cloaked in darkness so black, that I can’t make out what’s right in front of my face. My arms are thrashing now, desperate to escape the vise-like grasp, but still...nothing’s there.
What’s happening to me?
My body trembles and sweat breaks out across my forehead. I can feel my life slowly slipping away, and I know instinctively that I’m going to die here. I have no idea where I am. I just know I don’t want to die this way...alone. As I slip further and further toward unconsciousness, the fear of dying overwhelms me. Tears rain down my cheeks. I reach for my neck one last time, desperately trying to free myself from the constricting grip, but there’s nothing there.
I’m losing hope and fading fast.
That’s when I hear it. A dark, gravely laugh. If there was ever a sound that could be described as pure evil, it’s that laugh. “Tell me you love me.”
That voice. I know that voice. I wrack my brain, quickly trying to remember its source, but I’m so far gone that I can’t think. I should know who this voice...this man is. Every fiber in my body is screaming that I know him.
But how?
“Tell me you love me and I’ll let you go.”
He’s lying. I’m going to die whether I say it or not, but I have to try. I can’t just give up. Summoning my strength, I force out the words, “I love you.” It’s the last breath in my body and I know I’ve just wasted it. Now, I have nothing left.
The voice before me grows more menacing as he yells, “I don’t believe you!” I’ve never felt so terrified, and I know the end is moments away.
I shot up in bed screaming, “Nooo!” I sucked in so much air, I thought my chest would explode. My hair and clothes were drenched in sweat, as were the sheets tangled all around my legs. The nightmares that had just started a few months ago were gradually getting worse. This particular dream had been plaguing me for weeks and was gradually becoming more realistic. As I brushed the hair off my face, I knew in that moment, it was time for a higher dosage of medication. I couldn’t stand the idea of having to see Dr. Kinsley again, but that was clearly what I needed. It made sense. I’d been on the same dosage since I was fifteen. Now, at twenty-three, it was obvious the meds weren’t doing the job they were supposed to. It was time to up them.
I glanced at the red numbers on my alarm clock. 3:30 a.m.
Just fucking perfect.
I had too much adrenaline pumping through my body, and as if that wasn’t enough, the fact that I was afraid to close my eyes just guaranteed that I’d be living off coffee for another day.
I rubbed my hands roughly over my face and flung my legs over the side of the bed. If I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, I might as well do one of the only things that helped expel the restless energy coursing through my veins.
Exercise.
Typically, I was a fan of yoga. It helped clear all of the haunting pictures that ran through my mind on a non-stop reel. I knew yoga wasn’t going to cut it this time. I didn’t need to relax this time; I needed to pound the energy into the concrete. I could still feel the hands on my neck, and I needed to do something that would chase the memories from my mind.
I headed for the bathroom and brushed my teeth before throwing on a pair of running shorts and a tank top. I laced up my battered running shoes, strapped my iPod to my arm and headed out the door.
I knew that running through the streets of Seattle at 3:45 in the morning wasn’t the smartest thing to do—especially when there was someone out there targeting young women—but honestly, I was less afraid of the serial killer the media had dubbed “The Poet” than I was my own nightmare. Apparently years of hallucinations desensitized me to the horrors of the world. Why worry about the monsters on the streets when it was the monsters in my head that tormented me daily?
I rode the elevator down from my Harbor Steps apartment to the ornate marble lobby. I hoped to make it through the glass doors and out onto First Street uninterrupted, but on top of being crazy, I also had the worst luck in the world.
“Miss Taylor…”
I turned to see the doorman on duty watching me with concern etched on his pudgy, red face. His bushy, silver eyebrows were pulled down and frown lines were etched deeply around his eyes. “Please, it’s not safe for you out there. Can’t you use one of the treadmills in the gym?”
It was an argument we had routinely over the past several months…ever since the nightmares began plaguing my sleep. Gary was a sweet, old man who I’d come to care for in my time at Harbor Steps. He was one of the very few people I interacted with by choice.
“Gary, I’ve told you, I’m perfectly fine out there. You have nothing to be concerned about. And for Christ’s sake, please stop calling me
Miss
. You have kids older than me.”
He plastered a stern expression on his face and huffed, “I don’t like it, Taylor. Please use the gym.”
I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension. I appreciated his concern, but I couldn’t explain to him why I needed to run outside. Not only did I need the fresh air, I needed to see the buildings and feel the city around me. It wasn’t only the run that did the trick. Being stuck in a stale gym with the smell of rubber flooring and mirrors from wall-to-wall never allowed the escape I needed to expel the images I’d seen.
If I tried to explain to him what I was desperately trying to forget, he’d look at me just like everyone else back home did. Like I needed to be locked up, away from the rest of the world. Call me crazy, but after spending my entire life keeping people at a distance, the last thing I wanted was for one of the few I’d actually let in, to think of me the way
they
did.
“Gary, if I’m not back in an hour, you have my permission to call the cops,” I tried to joke.
But it was clear he didn’t find me funny at all when he replied, “They found another girl last night, Taylor. She was only a year older than you. You don’t know how dangerous it is out on those streets in the dark.”
If he only knew how wrong he was. I knew exactly how dangerous they were.
I couldn’t stand around talking with him anymore, because I knew I was minutes from a panic attack. I had to get out of that lobby before I lost it.
“I’m going, Gary. I’ll be back. I promise.” Before he could protest further, I was out the door, taking a left down First Street and heading in the direction of Pike Place Market. Everything would still be closed at this hour, but it was a route that I knew by heart. So, I just let my legs carry me away as Nine Inch Nails blared through my ear buds.
Every Day Is Exactly the Same
was the theme song for my life; wake up, grab coffee from the shop down the street, head to work and then go home. It was routine. It might seem boring to most, but keeping a routine was one of the only things that helped me hold on to what little sanity I had left. If I deviated from the schedule I set for myself, I put myself at risk for more hallucinations, and that meant more panic attacks.