Clayton

 

 Her voice comes out in a whisper. “Hi, Clayton.”

“I take it you made it home okay?”

“We did.”

“We?” My questioning tone isn’t necessary. I saw her get into a cab with a woman, who I can only assume is her sister. But I’m missing that confidence she’d shown me earlier, and I feel the only way to get it back is to press her a little.

There’s a huff of breath then her curt tone. “Yeah, we. My sister and I.”

And there it is. I smirk at her response then clear my throat and lower my voice to avoid any humor coming through. “That must have been who’s dress you were tugging on before you headed to the restrooms.”

“What? You saw me?”

“I did. You both looked like you were having a great time. I only wish I had been close enough to hear whatever it was you were talking about. Any topic that can light up your face like that is well worth discussing.”

She coughs nervously into the phone.

Not wanting to embarrass her any further, I turn the conversation to earlier in the day. “When I saw you at Magnolia Woods, I’ll admit, I didn’t recognize you at first, but the longer I stared, the more I thought there was something that seemed familiar.” I don’t mention that I have information on her from her license plate when I add, “It was later when I realized I knew you from the interview.”

After a few moments of no response, she finally speaks again. “Well, you had the advantage then. I didn’t know who or what you were, and I have to admit, I was concerned.”

“What do you mean what I was?” My tone deepens, and I sit up in the bed, eager to hear about her first impression of me.

“I just mean I thought you might be a stalker, or who knows…a murderer.” Her tone lacks any emotion.

Unable to hold it in, laughter rumbles my chest. “So, that’s what you thought of me? That I was some bad guy, who wanted to scare or hurt you? Well, I hope now that you know who I am; your perception has changed. I’m neither of those things. Although…the stalking part kind of intrigues me. If that means following you everywhere and staring at you for hours, I’m in.”

The timid squeak of her laugh fills my ears. “I don’t know. My life is pretty boring. Stalking me would be like watching paint dry.”

“I highly doubt anything about your life is boring. The fact that we’ve encountered one another twice in one day is definitely not boring and should account for something. Speaking of which…what did you decide?”

“Decide?” Her voice is so innocent.

“At the bar, I gave you three options. Drinks, coffee, or… anything else. Since you called, my assumption is you’ve decided. I know what I would choose if it were up to me, but it’s not.”

“I’m not sure meeting is such a good idea. I probably shouldn’t even have called. There are things I’m going through that…well, will prevent me from being very good company.” The line goes quiet for several moments—so long, I wonder if she hung up and pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. When I place it back to my ear, she says, “Coffee. How about we meet for coffee? I have some time in the morning. Will that work for you?”

One side of my lips quirks up. “Coffee it is. When and where?”

“How about the little coffee shop on the corner of Broad and Bay Street? Seven a.m.?”

“I’ll be there. Oh, and, Lacy?”

“Yeah?”

“I will be disappointed if you don’t show.” My words are left hanging as I disconnect the call.                               

The red neon numbers on the nightstand clock read eleven, and though it isn’t late, exhaustion begins to take over.  Stretching out in the bed, lips turned up in a mischievous grin and arms behind my head, I begin to drift off.

***

I sit straight up in bed; my eyes fly open and my heart pounds in my chest. When I peel the soaking wet t-shirt from my skin, I hesitate before moving my gaze to my side where I expect to see a gaping hole. But just like every other time, the long, jagged scar is the only thing staring back at me.

It’s the same dream over and over.

Martin and I crouch down, our steps quick as we make our way around to the back of the house where the S.W.A.T. team is waiting to enter. When the countdown reaches one, the pounding of a battering ram against the door splinters the wood, and after only two hits it goes crashing to the floor.

With guns drawn, my adrenaline rushes through my veins as we enter the premises and make our way through the house. There’s shouting all around us. “On the floor! Show me your hands!” It fades when we head down the narrow hall and close in on a back bedroom.

The room is dark, and the stench of chemicals burns my nostrils as I take a step across the threshold. A cold chill runs through me. Something doesn’t feel right. Seconds after reaching the edge of the door, a sharp object punctures the skin below my bulletproof vest. The pain is excruciating as the object moves toward my stomach and separates my skin like fabric being ripped in half. I place a hand over the jagged opening in my side and drop to the floor. The last thing I remember is the loud pop of a gun and a warm wet spray hitting my face.

When the nauseating scent of chemicals floods my senses, my breathing increases and the room starts spinning. A deep ache, starting at my scar, radiates through my body, and it doesn’t take long for the sensation to become unbearable. In my attempt to reach for the pain medication on the nightstand, I knock the bottle to the floor and it rolls under the bed. Dropping back to the bed, I groan in frustration, then breathe through clenched teeth while I wait for the episode to pass.

    The therapist said it would take some time before the dreams become less frequent, but it’s been years and taking medication doesn’t help. It only makes me feel lethargic—worthless. I know I can’t continue like this. In my line of work, even the smallest slip in concentration can put lives at risk, and if I don’t find some relief soon, I’m not sure what might happen. 

Once the episode has passed, I stagger to the bathroom and turn on the shower, then strip free of my boxers. I step beneath the spray of warm water, placing my hands on the cool tile wall and dropping my head. The water pounds the dream from my body, and I watch as it swirls down the drain along with the sweat and tears.