Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(22)

I wasn't exactly prepared for her lifestyle. And she wasn't exactly prepared for mine either.



A creak pulled me from my sleep. I remained still with my eyes closed, listening to the wind push against the house and the groans of the old building fighting against it. I opened my eyes, staring into the dark with my ears at attention. There was another creak, closer to my room.

My unblinking eyes slowly adjusted to the light, as little as there was. But it didn't matter how much I stared at the door, I couldn't see into the black paint. I might as well have been looking into an abyss. I only knew where it was because a sliver of light seeped in under its uneven edge. Another board let out a creak right outside the door.

I wanted to call out for my mother, hoping it was her. But I remained paralyzed in my bed. The only thing that moved was my heart racing in my chest. I heard the handle jiggle, and the hinges shrieked open. The silhouette stood in the door's frame, unmoving.

I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but I could barely breathe. The person stepped forward, allowing just enough light to make out the angular features of her face and the sneer on her lips. I looked down at her hand and she was holding something long and hard. It reflected the light enough for me to know that whatever it was, it was going to hurt.

"You don't deserve to live," she grunted, raising her arm over her head.

"Emily?!" another voice screamed. My eyes shot open. I remained frozen, breath heaving, trying to orient myself. The door flung open and my mother rushed in in a panic, "What's wrong?!" She stood just inside the door, flipping on the light, her hand over her heart.

My shoulders relaxed and I took a deep breath to ease the racing beats in my chest. "It was just a dream," I explained, from my startled seated position.

"Holy shit, Emily," she declared, letting out a long breath. "You just about gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry." I ran my hand over my brow, erasing the lingering sweat that clung to my skin. "I'm fine."

She hesitated before leaving, like she wanted to say something. She looked me over again and finally said, "Well... good night," then walked out, shutting off the light and closing the door behind her.

I clicked on the lamp next to my bed, to keep out the dark, and settled into my pillow with my arms wrapped tightly across my body. The dream lingered. It felt so real, I was afraid to close my eyes again.



       
         
       
        

My mother came into my room only a couple of times after that night, panicked by my screams. But then she stopped, probably realizing there wasn't anything she could do.

I felt guilty for waking her, especially when I saw her slumped over her coffee each morning. I knew I wasn't easy to live with. I'd often found Sara on the couch of her entertainment room in attempt to escape me.

My therapist had prescribed sleeping pills, but they didn't take the nightmares away. They only kept me trapped, thrashing inside of them.

"I'm sorry," I offered one morning. My mother looked up from her coffee. "About keeping you awake."

She shrugged. "You can't help it."

We didn't talk about it after that.





7. Social Life



"So, I just started dating this guy," my mother blurted one morning while I was buttering toast. I paused before turning around, not prepared for the confession―especially after all of the guys she'd hidden in the past month since my "breakfast" with Chris.

I took a breath and turned to face her. "Really?" I tried to remember the last time I'd heard a visitor and narrowed it down to about a week or week and a half ago.

"Except," she hesitated with a breath, "he's... younger. A lot younger, and I'm not sure how I feel about it." She appeared troubled, clearly looking to me for advice.

"How old is he?" I asked, attempting to fill the role.

"Twenty-eight," she grimaced, waiting for me to pass judgment. I didn't react. He was older than I'd expected, to be honest.

"How old was Chris?" I asked, without thinking.

Her face changed to a hue of red. "He was... young, but I had no interest in dating him."

"Right," I nodded, flushing uncomfortably. "So, do you like him?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes lighting up. "He's so nice, and smart, and amazingly hot, and confident," she gushed, "but... he's so young, Emily. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Who cares," I offered with a shrug, taking on my role with a little more gusto. "You obviously like him, and if the age difference doesn't bother him, then... date him. I mean, is it serious?"