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A sense of dread falls over me, my skin prickling as the sensation drips down my spine. There’s a heat in the center of my gut, burning its way up my esophagus. There’s no way…

There’s no way.

No.

No, I’m being ridiculous.

I’m high as shit, that’s all it is. I didn’t even smoke that much, but it’s the only explanation for how I’m feeling right now. I just need to get the dried sweat off me and go back to sleep.

My bare feet slap against the wood and tile as I wander into the bathroom, shedding my boxers and stuffing them into the laundry basket.

My shower is possibly my favorite place in this apartment. It’s huge, with waterfall attachments and jets. The limestone-effect walls make it feel earthy and luxurious, like a spa. It’s supposed to be calming, but when I turn on the faucet and the temperature stays cold, I slam my fist on the wall.

Just what I fucking need right now, a broken shower. The rage sits in the bottom of my stomach like a sunken brick, festering away. Usually, I like to take long showers and stroke myself to release tension, but I’m too pissed off even to do that. I make quick work of lathering myself up, raking my hands through my hair and rinsing off.

I’m not even sure if I’ve got all the suds out of my hair, but the water starts feeling like tiny pins pricking all over my skin, so I shut it off. Wrapping a dark blue towel around my waist, I stand in front of the mirror and lean forward, pressing my hands into the limestone. Water drips from the clumped strands of my hair into the sink below, along with drops of crimson.

I sigh, letting my nose do its thing. The gap between bleeds has gotten longer as I’ve gotten older, but exhaustion and stress exacerbate it. Something to do with blood pressure, probably. Add in the fact that Bellamy smashed his pretty little head into my nose not that long ago…

The warm blood cascades slowly over my lips and dribble down my chin. The coppery taste slips over my tongue and I spit aggressively into the sink, my grip tightening on the edge.

I don’t feel right.

I keep telling myself that I fell in the water, but what if I’m wrong?

It’s in my nature to find an explanation for everything. The concept of death has always intrigued me. Every religion, every afterlife. But that’s all it is—different versions of faith. Whatever people need to believe in to accept that their end is inevitable, to make the fear of the unknown bearable.

I can’t explain what happened. I can’t explain why my bones feel like they’re rubbing together under my skin, or the itch sitting at my temples that I can’t seem to sate. I can’t explain why the nightmare felt familiar, or the heaviness sitting on my chest. My head feels thick and foggy and wrong.

I’m struck with an overwhelming compulsion to look in the mirror.

I drag my head up slowly, blowing out a long breath. My body looks like it always does—tight, tattooed. My chest heaves, and droplets of water glisten on my pecs. Deep purple smudges sit under my eyes, giving the illusion of a bruise, the telltale sign of fatigue.

I look into my eyes. Black swallows most of the blue, almost connecting with the thick, dark outer ridge. In fact, the closer I look, the more they seem to pulse. I swallow, the salty, coppery tang slipping down the back of my throat, making me feel sick.

I pull back, my hands slipping on the sink.

My reflection doesn’t move.

The air in my lungs locks up, the oxygen in the room evaporating. I know the face I’m making; I can feel the pull of my brows as they slam together, the tension in my jaw, my lips clamping together.

I watch in horror as the corners of my mouth twitch into a smile, even though I know for a fact I’m not. The smile stretches crookedly, revealing ruby-stained teeth, crimson drool leaking out of my mouth. I swipe at my face with the back of my hand, but nothing comes away. That’s not me.

That’s—

Self-preservation wins out as I back away, my scapula colliding with the doorframe. The thud echoes and distorts, ricocheting off the walls. I wince at the overlapping sounds, the cacophony mixing with delirious laughter.

Laughter that I know isn’t coming from me.

I bolt from the room, almost slipping on the wet tiles. My eyes zero in on a clean pile of laundry, and I grab the first thing I find—a pair of checkered shorts. I move on autopilot, snatching a well-worn hoodie off the back of the couch and sliding my bare feet into my Vans. The feel of my slightly damp feet on the canvas is repulsive, but I want out of here.

In seconds, I’m out of my apartment, down the stairs, and out of the building. I head into the evening fog, walking quickly even though I’m not sure where I’m going. The unpleasant feeling dogs my heels, my pace quickening in a desperate attempt to get away.

As much as every atom of my being screams this isn’t real, that I’m going to wake up again any second now, there’s a kernel of belief starting to sprout.

And if this is real…

There’s only one person who can help me.