Not There
The nightmare came sharp and didn’t fade. I woke up drenched, went to the kitchen, poured cereal and milk like it was any other morning. But I could still see her face—white like death. Still smelled it. The blood seemed like some sick play of light and shadow on my skin.
The memories from that night kept surfacing. The club. People screaming her name. Me with my phone in one hand, tequila in the other, hearing how she left with some guy—completely drunk, no control over anything, just gone. I was screaming. Not thinking. Just screaming her name like it could change something.
I opened the window and let the cold air hit. Trying to clear my head but it wouldn’t stick. The running, the crying, finding the way to her. That alley. That filthy back alley where she was lying. Everything collapsed into a single moment—impact, sound, weight. I ran to her and screamed things that aren’t even words, just noise loud enough that maybe somehow it could reach her. People’s faces blurred into pity. I held her so tight everything split open. I was choking on blood and tears. The last image that burned in—her face, empty eyes, the weight of her looking at me like I should have been there. Like I failed to be there when it mattered.
Then I was awake.