Page 56 of In Somnis

If I try one in a dream, nobody can say I gave in and ate them, right?

Against my better judgment, against every judgment, I lift the muffin to my mouth and take a bite.

My eyes slip shut for half a second in pure, involuntary pleasure. Bright lemon, tart blueberry, soft buttery crumb, that hit of warm sugar that goes straight to the lizard part of my brain.

Oh my God.

It’s obscene.

“This is assault,” I mutter around another bite because, of course, I take another bite. When I let go, the half-eaten thing drifts right back into the air, joining its pristine, perfectly smiley buddies like some undead pastry corpse hovering among the choir.

If that’s not nightmare fuel, I don’t know what is.

“Yeah, I’m out.” I brush some crumbs off my chest. “I’d rather deal with the fucking forest than spend one more minute in Natasha Bedingfield’s Muffin Wonderland.”

I reach for the familiar slipstream.

Leaving someone else’s dream is usually effortless and way easier than entering it. Decide you want to leave, blink, fade, and gone. Except, nothing happens.

Huh? Every time I shared a dream before, even the last time with her, there was room to leave. I didn’t want to, but I could have. There was always a door tucked into the fog somewhere. Now it feels as if the walls have welded shut.

“What the hell?” I take a step back, then another, testing the edges of the dreamscape like pressure points. Every direction feels sealed, and an uneasy prickle climbs up my spine.

Nope. No. Absolutely fucking not.

“Wake up,” I command myself.

If I can’t slip back into my own subconsciousness, fine. I’d rather take another sleepless night than be in here any longer, and waking up is the only thing that always works, no matter what. But again, nothing happens.

I can’t leave my own dream, and I can’t wake up from hers.

Fear flickers, making my pulse tighten. Under normal circumstances, I’d be thrilled. Dream stability like this? Being able to hold a lucid state this good, there is no chance of my getting bolted because I got myself too excited? That’s the holy fucking grail. I’ve spent years wishing my mind would let me maintain control like this.

Except it’s not my dream, dammit.

Is she holding my unconsciousness hostage now?

I flick my gaze toward the big window, the heavy curtain beside it, and push a thought toward it. The fabric ripples, then, at my command, long, grotesque fingers slide out from behind it, nails dripping slow beads of red that patter softly onto the floor.

So I am lucid. I can build, twist, bend, and tear things open, then rearrange them however the hell I want. I’m not powerless in her dreamscape.

I just can’t get the hell out.

My stomach drops, and when I look back at her—this small, sweet-looking blonde woman smiling at a mound of dough—my irritation spikes even harder.

How the fuck is she doing it?

“Are you playing with me, sweetheart?” I bite out as rage tangles with the fear prickling at the edges of my ribs. Fear, I will happily deny until the day I die. “Because two can play that game.”

The corners of the kitchen darken at my will, like mold creeping across it. The white grout between the tiles seeps red, bleeding outward in branching veins. Darkness presses from inside the walls, stretching them, building the plaster as if it’s breathing.

A low sound crawls up from beneath the floor as monsters begin to take shape in the periphery, teeth grinding together in anticipation, shadows peeling themselves off the ceiling and slithering down toward the kitchen aisle.

I snicker to myself, adrenaline filling me because I can finally, finally, do what I do best again, but when I look at her, she hasn’t even noticed. Blondie’s shoulders are relaxed, and she looks peaceful. Her little smile hasn’t faltered.

Yet.

I know she’ll scream when I let the blood that is now pooling on the floor reach her feet. When I let the walls scream, her subconscious folds in on itself, and ejects her straight out of sleep with terror clawing up her throat.