Sleep is a thing that is my refuge in this life.

A solace.

If I could sleep forever, I would. It’s the only time when I can relax, loose-limbed and buzzing from whatever chemical stimulant is helping me to fall asleep, the artifice something I don’t worry about anymore. Whether it’s vodka or sleeping pills, I know all I need is something to nudge me along and give me some blessed relief from the cruel light of my winter days.

I do not wake up for anyone. Damon’s tried before on a few occasions when mom’s breathing machine flipped out and he needed me to help him set it straight. I slept through. She lived anyway. And then she died while I was at work. Funny how these things happen. But tonight, when a voice pierces my cotton-wool wrap of drugged sleep; I sit up in bed like I’m on fire.

I’m not; on fire, that is. I feel like I am, though. I’ve been bunched up in a thick duvet while the heat’s been blasting. I’m so hot my hair is damp from sweat, a thin sheen of moisture prickling on my forehead. There is movement above me, in the attic?

I know something sharp and loud woke me, but now that my eyes are open and I’m rubbing my face I can’t for the life of me remember what was so urgent that I snapped awake alone, in the dark.

Until it comes again. CASSIE!

It’s Damon. He’s screaming my name. I haven’t heard somebody scream my name like that since they were trapped in a well with a dead girl.

Mom.

Is it my mother? Is she dead?

No, that’s right — she died already.

CASSIE! HELP!

Damon’s voice is definitely coming from upstairs. From the attic. Has he hurt himself? What could he have possibly done to himself in the attic? There’s nothing in there except my father’s ghost and some old shit I keep meaning to box up and sell, or burn. Old family photos and my mother’s wedding dress are about the only things I would keep from the piles of junk up there.

The drugs make my brain slow. He’s called me three times now, and I’m still sitting up in my bed, sweat pouring off me, my feet tangled in sheets. I extricate myself from the mess of blankets and feel the sudden urge to pee, but there’s no time. I shuffle over to my door; fling it open, and take the stairs two at a time. The hallway light is on and it burns my eyes. I squint as I make my way up the rickety stairs, marveling at the way they don’t creak anymore.

The attic door is open when I reach the landing, a lone lamp illuminating the low-ceilinged space where old things go to die.

It’s different than I remember. It’s tidy; devoid of clutter, everything pushed against one wall and itemized thoughtfully. I see clear plastic boxes full of vinyl records; the front cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors presses against the side of the closest container, begging to be let out.

The smell of dust and must that is usually present is gone, replaced by a thick metallic smell that makes my stomach twist.

On top of the stack of neat containers sits the heart-shaped box that holds my mother’s wedding dress — her first dress, the one she wore when she married my dad.

Away from the window, there is a large pine box, it’s lid ajar; built for storage but a box that looks eerily coffin-like in its shape and dimensions. Above me is the thick wooden beam that my father used to hang himself from.

Beside the pine not-coffin box is Damon, blood on his palms as he kneels on wooden planks that are full of splinters.

And in front of Damon there is a horror I cannot fully comprehend.

“She’s dying,” Damon chokes, his blue eyes bloodshot and wild, her blood all over him. I open my mouth to speak but no words will come, so it just stays open like that, a shocked O as I try to blink away the bloodbath in front of me.

I look at the dead girl cradled in Damon’s arms and that’s when everything slams into place. I meet her eyes; she’s not dead after all, just dying. Her eyes beg me for help; eyes I’ve seen before. She is the spitting image of her older brother, even down to the shape of their lips, their straight white teeth, the color of their eyes.

“Jennifer,” I choke.

I look back to Damon. “What did you do?”