Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(36)

         
       
        

He laughed again, taking the movie and inserting it into the DVD player while I doled out pizza on the paper plates.

There wasn't really a point to the plot, except maybe to sear my brain with lifelong nightmares―but then again, I already had those. I watched the entire movie with my knees pulled into me and a pillow clutched to my chest. I'd shove my face into the pillow whenever the music chimed in warning. Jonathan would talk me through what was happening and then let me know when it was safe to look again.

By the time the credits rolled, I wasn't sure if I was ever going to sleep again. Jonathan changed the channel to ESPN, allowing talk of the Super Bowl to help disperse the disturbing images.

"What are you doing for the game tomorrow?" Jonathan asked, tucking in the lip of the pizza box and stacking the crust-laden plates on top of it.

"Oh, uh, nothing. I mean, I'm watching it, but I don't have plans."

"I'm sure there's a few Super Bowl parties you could go to."

"Maybe," I admitted, not having given it a second thought. "But, I think I'd rather watch the game. You know?"

"Yes," he stressed. "We're going to a party with some of Rachel's friends, and I have a feeling the game's going to be background. I'd actually like to watch it too." He shrugged and carried the box into the kitchen.

It felt like I hadn't moved the entire movie. I stretched my legs and stood to go to bed.

"Are you sure you'll be able to sleep?" Jonathan asked when he saw me head for the stairs.

"Probably not," I admitted, "but that's not different from any other night."

He gave me a questioning look, but didn't say anything.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Emma," Jonathan returned watching me enter my room.



"Emma," the dark beckoned. A banging followed. I fought to hold on to the bed, but the sheets were slipping. The room continued to tilt, determined to dump me into the black hole at the end of my bed. Horrific screams cried out from the abyss.

"Emma," the dark called out again.

I kicked my feet to work my way further up the mattress.

The banging grew louder, and I shot up in bed. My sheets were tangled around me, and I was breathing so fast, I was practically hyperventilating. I turned on the light next to my bed.

"Emma?" came from the other side of the door. "Are you okay? Will you open the door?"

It was Jonathan. I inhaled deeply to calm my nerves. "I'm fine," I answered, sweeping strands of sweat soaked hair from my face with a shaking hand.

"Please open the door?" he requested again. 

"I'm okay, really," I responded, unraveling the sheets around my legs.

"Please," he pled. "Just open the door, okay?"

I hesitated and stared at the door. "Fine. Just a minute."

I crawled out of the bed and flipped the comforter over the top to hide the mess beneath. I tied my hair back in an elastic and pulled on a hoodie before unlocking the door and slowly opening it.

"I'm okay, see." I looked up at him, shoving my shaking hands in the front pocket of my sweatshirt. His eyes softened as he took me in. "It was just a dream. Sorry I woke you."

"You shouldn't go back to bed," he advised calmly.

"Huh?"

"When you have a nightmare like that, you need to get out of your bed, to get away from it," he explained. "Get a glass of water, watch television, something to clear your head. That way, when you go back to sleep, the nightmare's not still there, waiting for you."

I remained quiet, taking in his words. His eyes were soft and empathetic. "Come on. Let's watch TV for awhile, okay?"

"Sure," I surrendered. "But you don't have to stay up."

"Don't worry about me," he responded. "Let's go see what they're selling at this hour."

I followed him down the stairs and curled up on the couch under a blanket while he sat on the loveseat, flipping through the channels. I glanced over at him as the soft light of the television lit the lines of his strong jaw.

I would never have predicted that he knew anything about needing to escape nightmares. He seemed impervious to fear, so confident and assured.

"The infomercials can be addicting," he noted, glancing over at me. I flipped my eyes to the TV, my cheeks peaking with color, having been caught staring. He continued as if he hadn't noticed. "You need to stay away from them because the next thing you know you're watching the sun come up, convinced that a six inch cloth can wash your entire car, and still be clean enough to wipe the windows."