Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“How long have you been having them?” she asks nonchalantly, as if I just told her I love chocolate. That’s the thing about Faye. She’s not easily shocked. She’s normally calm and even-tempered.
“They started a couple weeks ago. Right after I returned from Atlanta.” I chew on my bottom lip. “But the first dream was kind of tame compared to the one I had last night and today. The first dream I was in some house, lost. The house was huge and I heard people talking, but no one came to find me. I also hear, like, this voice—some man’s voice. He has an accent. British, maybe?”
“Go on…”
“I don’t know who he is or anything, but he feels familiar somehow. Anyway, when I was in the basement, I was in a forest. It was cold and the trees were really tall and scary looking. And I think something was hunting me or chasing me…I can’t be sure. But that guys voice, I heard it again this time too. Like he’s calling out for me or looking for me before whatever that thing is can catch me.”
“Hmm.” She scratches the side of her head. “Maybe it’s stress.”
“Why would it be that?”
Her eyes find mine. “Because you bottle a lot of shit up. Maybe it’s finally starting to eat at your brain.”
I roll my eyes then stand, going to the dining table to clear it. I might as well keep myself busy too.
“Maybe you should talk to a therapist,” she offers.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I’m telling you, Willow. When I saw Dr. Wan, she was incredible. She really put my mind at ease with the grief I had about my mom’s death. She helped me heal…and I’m going to be honest, I think that’s what you need to do. You need to heal.” She turns the faucet off after filling the sink with water and suds and says, “I’m worried about you. I really am.”
“Why?” I ask, laughing. “I’m fine. Please don’t overreact. And why didn’t you use the dishwasher?”
“You’re drinking more, and the antidepressants don’t seem to be helping,” she goes on, ignoring my last remark. “You’re seeing and hearing things, and I’m worried that you’re secluding yourself. You’re forcing yourself to be lonely.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Really? If I hadn’t called you tonight, would you have called me to see what I was doing?”
I debate an answer. “I would have texted you…eventually.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes and going back to the dishes. “All I’m saying is I think it would be good for you. If you’re seeing things and having bad dreams, maybe it means something, you know? Maybe it means it’s finally time to talk about Warren’s disappearance.”
I avoid looking at Faye as I carry some of the trash to the trash bin. “If I take the therapists’ number, will you stop bringing up Warren?”
She grins so big it nearly splits her face in half. “I promise.”
Faye tidies up a bit more (what can I say, she’s an incredible friend, with a nurturing side to her that I’m grateful for) and after she shares a chicken salad sandwich from Lit & Latte’s with me, she gives me a tight squeeze and leaves before the storm gets any worse.
When she’s gone, I walk to the liquor bottles lined up on the counter, grab the tequila, and pour some into a cup. I take a big chug, then drag myself through the living room, shut off all the lights, finish my drink, and flop on the bed to bury my face into my pillow and scream.
After my breakdown, the storm strengthens. Lightning strikes and thunder causes the thin walls of my apartment to rattle. I pop an antidepressant into my mouth, chug it down with water instead of tequila this time, and then shuffle through my nightstand until I find my joint papers and a little baggy of green.
I pause when I notice the polaroid picture of me and Warren. I pull it out slowly, staring at it. It’s us, the year before he went missing. We were at a New Year’s Eve party and I can’t remember who took the picture, but they captured Warren with his arm draped around my shoulder and a “yeah, right,” look on his face. I’m looking up at him, pointing and laughing. I was most likely teasing him about something, like I often did.
I stare at the picture so long my vision blurs and I bite into my bottom lip, not wanting the tears to fall. I breathe in, exhale, and then grab my weed before shoving the image back into the drawer and slamming it closed.
I roll a joint, spark it, take a deep pull, and then lie flat on my bed, peering up at the ceiling fan. It’s not spinning tonight, but the more I smoke and the higher I become, the more it seems the fan is spinning, or perhaps it’s the lightning outside. The blades start slowly, then begin to spin faster.