Night of the Tiger(5)

“This isn’t possible.” Her breathing grew shallow and fast. Darkness threatened to swamp her, and she began to sway.

“No!” She reared away from the mirror. Her back hit the wall with a thud, and Aimee slowly slid to the floor. She lowered her head, tucked it between her knees and took several deep breaths. No way did she want to pass out. She would be helpless, vulnerable. Staring down at her feet, she noticed they were bruised.

She shook her head. “Impossible. It was just a dream. Nothing more.” As she stared at her feet, the bruises slowly began to disappear. Startled, she grabbed the edge of the vanity and pulled herself upright. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she watched as the gash on her forehead and the burn marks slowly faded away. Her hands returned to normal.

“I am not crazy. I am not crazy.” She repeated the mantra over and over as she turned on the taps in the shower and adjusted the water temperature. When it was as hot as she could bear it, she stripped off her nightgown and stepped beneath the spray.

She shivered hard, her teeth chattering. It took several minutes, but finally the heat began to seep into her frozen flesh, warming her and washing away the remnants of her nightmare.

She didn’t close the shower curtains. Tonight was beginning to seem too much like a bad horror movie. And everyone knew what happened to the heroine in those kinds of movies when she was stupid enough to take a shower with the curtain closed.

It might be cowardly, and a tad paranoid, but there was no way she was letting herself be any more vulnerable than she had to be. It was easier to wipe up the water that spattered onto the floor than to take a shower with the curtain closed.

With it open, the air circulating around her never fully warmed. Aimee didn’t linger. Washing quickly, she soaped herself from her scalp to her feet. Usually, she enjoyed taking a shower, letting the water cascade over her body. But not tonight. Tonight she just wanted to be scrubbed clean as fast as possible.

When she was done, she flicked off the water and stepped out onto the tile floor. The cold seeped into the bottoms of her feet. She grabbed a towel and rubbed it over her wet hair, squeezing out the excess water. When she was satisfied the ends of her hair wouldn’t drip, she wrapped the towel around her body. She grabbed another one off the rod by the sink and began to clean up the mess on the floor.

The mirror was coated in steam, which was fine with her. She didn’t want to see her fear reflected back at her. When the floor was dry, she tossed the wet towels into the laundry hamper. She’d be doing several loads of sheets and blankets later this morning and would throw in the towels as well.

Padding back to her bedroom, she went straight to her dresser drawer and pulled out socks and underwear. It was all plain white cotton and totally utilitarian, but it was comfortable and it matched. There was no one else to see her underwear, so she pleased herself. She grabbed a pair of gray baggy sweatpants and a white T-shirt and finished dressing.

It was only when she was fully clothed that she faced the bed. The sheets and comforter were a tangled mess. She’d have to wash all of it before it went back on the bed.

“Just do it,” she admonished herself. The dream was over. Nothing could hurt her. She refused to believe the wounds she’d seen on her body were anything more than an extension of her imagination. She had a very vivid one. One that helped her make a living.

Images flashed in her brain—the unholy demons, the cave, the skeletons and him. “Damn it!” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes for a brief moment, knowing there was only one way to free herself from the remnants of her nightmare.

Whirling around, she stomped down the hallway in her stocking feet, leaving the mangled bed behind her. She thought about going downstairs and starting a pot of coffee, but her studio beckoned. She pushed open the door to her office and went straight to her drafting table. A lot of artists used computer programs to create their art. She was no different and used technology for a lot of her work, but when possible, Aimee preferred to do it the old-fashioned way with pencils, pen and ink.

She automatically turned on all the lights before sitting on her stool. The blank sheet of paper called to her, and she grabbed her T-square and began marking out a grid. Her fingers flew as the familiar task took over. She’d done this hundreds of times—no, thousands of times.

Grabbing a pencil, she began to sketch as the story unfolded in her head. “What was it he called you?” She closed her eyes and let herself remember. “Lady of the beast.”

Aimee made a note to do some research later today. For now, she needed to get the details down while they were fresh in her mind. Letting the world around her fall away, she immersed herself in the drawings unfolding before her as her fingers flew across the paper. The cave and all its hellish denizens were soon depicted down to the minutest detail.