I spit out my gum so I don’t choke in my sleep, then double bolt the door, drop the shutters on the windows, and avoid the reflection. I hate watching myself break like a whimpering child. Nole always sat on the couch and sank into the Nightmare with resignation. It either affects me differently or I’m just weak. It makes my knees buckle, my body tremble, my mind panic.
Maybe I am like Mom.
“I . . . can fight . . . this.” My words dissipate into mental mist as I sink unwillingly to the hard floor. “I . . . can . . .” Every word is like spitting out bricks. I turn my focus elsewhere—to keeping my eyes open. “I will . . . not sleep.” It comes out as a croak.
I don’t want to go.
Fifteen seconds.
I launch to my feet. “I will not sleep!” Every blink brings the weight of a dumbbell to my eyelids. Don’t blink.
I stand alone in The Fire Swamp, eyes wide open, fists clenched against my temples. Sweat rolls down my temples. Fog rolls in.
It’s not real.
The fog swirls around me, clouding my vision and taking over my mind. This is the fifteenth time the virus has claimed me, and it shreds my courage as swiftly as the first time. I stumble away from it, careening into a corner.
I blink and barely manage to squint my eyes open again. Anger rushes in at the injustice of this infection. It grows like black veins, clawing its way into my irises, taking over my sight.
My knees buckle again and I slide to the floor, balancing on the balls of my feet, my sweaty back pressing against the wood-paneled wall. The chill does nothing to wake me. My strength flees and my eyes droop. Close.
The alarm rings, startling the atmosphere with its shrill scream, yet fading into nothingness . . . disappearing.
I bury my face into my folded arms as the Nightmare consumes me.
THE NIGHTMARE
The darkness clings to my body like tree sap.
I’m in the Nightmare now.
No light relieves the strain of my eyes. Blackness is everywhere, thick and dragging my head down, pressing upon me like invisible anvils.
Like always, I’m tempted to lie here, cheek against the sticky concrete ground. But like always, I force myself to my hands and knees against the emotional suffocation. I force a deep breath, but tar coats my throat. I grope against the walls and inch my way upward, locking my knees against the weight until I’m finally, finally standing.
Trembling, but standing.
Nole was right. The Nightmare is nothing more than a sticky, black tunnel of soul darkness. The first several times I entered, I tried to find or see the things I just knew Nole must have missed. Nothing. Nothing to see. Nothing to feel except slimy, curved concrete walls.
I don’t know what got him in this Tunnel—what killed him—but I’m not going to wait around and find out. I refuse to cower to this disease and let it take me.
Just like the other fourteen times I’ve been in this Tunnel, my first few steps are hesitant. Forced. The darkness wants me to cower. It wants to win. I growl at it. That’s something new that I’ve embraced: emotions are higher and stronger when I’m in here—and memory of life in the Real World dims and weakens until I can hardly remember details.
My anger is on the surface constantly.
In the Tunnel I see no reason to rein it in.
My pace picks up. The ground curves upward too suddenly, and I fall to one knee. My palm slides up the curved wall, through an unseen coating, giving me a small semblance of orientation in this Tunnel of night.
Panic chokes me as a memory stirs of a different place—a need.
Light. I need light. Sunlight. Candlelight. Lamplight. Anything.
The more I think about light, the quicker my lungs heave. The thicker the tar in my throat becomes. Desperation turns into a live animal writhing inside me.
I’m losing it.
A voice—my voice?—whispers from far away in my mind. Breathe. I don’t want to. I can’t. The voice can’t understand the impossibility of its demand.
Breathe.
I force an inhale. Exhale. And with that motion, a different reminder leaks in. I’ve been here before, in this Tunnel. And every time I’ve woken up again—returned to life. Today will be no different. I won’t let it.
The weight of shadows pulls at me, trying to drag me to my knees, but I dig inside myself—deeper than the emotional daggers can reach. I won’t quit. I won’t stop. I swallow some of the tar. Let it kill me eventually, but not until I find light.
I move.
I stumble.
I run.
My hands slide along the walls, guiding me. As though realizing they can’t beat me, the shadows relent. My feet propel me forward until my equilibrium spirals, and I fall. The shadows pull at my ankles, my clothing, my hair, trying to keep me down. But I lurch upward again, breathing hard.
I close my eyes, and some semblance of sanity returns. I grasp for it with the tendrils of my mind. Then I start forward again at a controlled jog. I steady my breathing and command logic to come forth. It obeys, but slowly.
