“Next step?”
“Another medication, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll do an MRI scan to rule out a physical cause. If neither is found to lead us anywhere, then we will begin a series of tests—polysomnography—to determine if you are indeed suffering from night terrors.”
“How long before we can reach that stage?”
“I’d like to see you in a month again. That is, unless you’re having a problem with this new prescription.”
“Thirty days?” My laugh is sardonic, my chest tightening and I rub the area. I’m sure he can sense the ire beginning to mount within. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for, but there’s a procedure to each treatment that must be followed.” Dr. Silva takes his glasses off and places them atop his desk along with his pen. Both are atop that stupid notebook I want to smack him with and then burn. “Please trust us, Gabriella. Trust me that I will do what’s best for you and your mental and physical health.”
“Sure.” Because what else can I say? He won’t listen.
My primary didn’t either.
They think it’s stress-related. That it’s manifesting in vivid dreams.
“Great.” He stands and so do I, following him to the door that he holds open for me. “I’ll see you in a month, and I think you’ll have good news for me. And please remember: keep the stress levels down and always take your meds.”
12
Gabriella
“B
lack. I’m going to need a lot of black,” I whisper to myself, standing in the middle of the acrylic paint section of a specialty art store while debating brands four days later. After my walk around the block with Mr. Pickles today, I’ve felt energized yet restless. I’m also running on nothing but coffee, determination, and the hour-and-a-half power nap I allow myself once a day.
No sleeping at night. No meds; the new or old ones.
Not a damn thing. This is the euphoric stage right before I crash, but I’m willing to take the risk. After getting home that day, I looked up the side effects to my new “night time” supplement and it’s much the same as the last, but with the added possibility of oral bleeding and headaches from hell. It’s in rare cases, I understand that, but I’m just not in the mood to add to my already heavy plate of bullshit.
So instead, I’m evading while sticking to the primary objective for my pieces. Because there’s this uncontrollable beckoning that’s leaning toward a dark and depraved setting where few have truly ventured into: the jungle. Be it the Amazon or Sri Lanka or any other large rainforest, there are legends of tribes and animals who live on these sacred grounds where money means nothing and you hunt to survive. It’s a delicate balance, perfected since the beginning of existence, and I’m giving in to this temptation.
More so after recalling my conversation with Tero about snakes.
Because they are majestic. Animals that solely survive on instinct and have no need for greed. They kill to sustain themselves, not for gluttony or power.
That is something they wield naturally without anything more than existing.
“Hunter versus prey. Life and death.” In my mind, I see trees and vines in different shades of green and contrast with a single predator highlighted in each piece. Both human and animal. “Now, which shade fits best for the base?”
There are two that I love and use, but a new one on the market has just a hint of metallic that my eyes are drawn to. It’d be perfect for the night sky, and will stand out, become reflective with the lighting being used.
“A lot of customers are choosing that tone this week,” comes from a male voice just behind me and I shriek, dropping the bottles in my hand. They don’t break, but instead roll beneath the gondola likely never to be found again unless someone gets on their knees, and with the man wearing a store uniform standing close, that person won’t be me. “My apologies.”
“You scared three years off my life.” At my grumble, he holds his hands up but makes no move to step back. He’s too close, and I don’t like it. He also doesn’t say anything after, and I’m confused by his just standing there. Just like the coffee house a few days ago. How uncomfortable he made me feel then too. “Can I help you?”
“You can...”
Stepping back, I bump into the shelf and then wave my hand in a hurry up action. “How?”
“You’re very pretty.” Not what I’m expecting, and it also heightens my unease. I’m not dressed to impress right now in an old paint-stained sweatshirt and denim cutoff shorts with a messy bun to top it off. Nor do I feel up to making polite conversation, but that choice is taken from me as he leans against another shelf.
The man is easily in his mid-twenties and taller than me with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a slim build with the slightest pouch in his midsection. Ordinary. Nothing that would draw me in physically, and while I can overlook that and let him down in a gentle manner, the lecherous way he’s watching me spikes my anxiety.
“Thank you,” I say to be polite and move the cart beside me closer to create separation. We’re alone in this row, no one near from the sound of it, which is strange. When I walked in, there were plenty of clients strolling the aisles. “And I’m fine. No help needed as I know what I’m here to buy.”
“Are you sure? Spending my shift with you wouldn’t be a chore at all.” His name tag reads Tim, and the title of shift manager is printed beneath it. “You know, I’ve seen you here before, always in the paint section. Always unaware of the stares you receive just like around town.”
“Okay.” That’s not creepy at all.
“I could keep others away if you’d like?” Tim looks at the items in my cart with interest. “A struggling artist?”
“No.” My one-word response doesn’t register at all. Nor my frown or the way I grip the metal kitty multi tool meant to protect if need be that I carry on my keychain; the ears are pointy and sharp enough to penetrate flesh.
“How about I cut you a deal, sweetheart. I’ll let you use...” Tim lifts a hand toward my face and I cringe back “...my employee discount and you cook—”
“You have two seconds to walk away,” a voice booms to my left, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Without turning my head, I know it’s Theodore and I’ve never been more grateful to see another human being. My unrest evaporates, and when his hand touches the crook of my elbow, pulling me in closer, I nearly melt into him. I’m not questioning how he affects me when the creepy employee across from me has ruined what was supposed to be a fun trip.
“I’m just doing my job, sir—”
“Last warning.” This time it leaves his chest on a growl, his muscles coiling beside me. His anger is palpable. His strength is visible in the cords of muscle that flex. “Walk away before you’re unable to.” The threat is there. It lingers heavily between the three of us, and Tim is smart enough to heed the warning, tucking tail and rushing away as if someone called him for help. This is the second time; it would’ve been an amusing sight had he not ruined my shopping. “Are you okay?”
Turning my head and meeting Mr. Astor’s stare, I find his expression as soft as the tone he used with me. No traces of his ire left. “I don’t know what you’re doing here or how you found me, but thank you. That was beyond uncomfortable for me.”
Are you following me? And more importantly, why don’t I care if you are?
