Page 27 of From That Moment

Paris

Hands wrapped around my neck,and I clawed at the flesh, trying to break free so I could breathe. So that I could live.

The grip merely tightened.

Spots appeared before my eyes.

Screams echoed in my ears.

I struggled, tried to breathe, fought to do something, but the hands wouldn’t let go.

And then there were smaller hands on my face, on my shoulders, telling me everything would be okay, leaning close and telling me it would end soon.

“I love you, Paris.”

A child’s voice, one with a little softness weaved through it. It filled my ears, and tears streamed down my face as I kicked and thrashed.

I sat up quickly, my eyes open, the dream gone but not that far away. Never far away.

I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I reached up to touch my throat and noticed the blood under my fingernails. The evidence that my nightmare wasn’t merely a dream. The blood on my hand was real. I’d scratched myself in my sleep again, and I cursed under my breath before rolling out of bed, my legs shaking, my knees giving way. I clutched at the nightstand and staggered toward the bathroom. I went to the sink, looking at myself in the mirror.

My eyes were wide, my hair standing up in all directions, and I panted. My lips parted as I tried to slow down my breathing and calm my heart rate.

I had a single scratch on my neck, one from my own hands, as I tried to stave off my dream attacker.

I quickly washed the scratch before I brushed my teeth and got into the shower. I put the water as hot as it could go, scalding myself as I tried to wake up, attempted to burn off any excess dream remnants.

The water slid down my back, and I pressed my palms flat against the tile, trying to focus. Attempting to breathe.

I hadn’t had that particular dream in a while, and I never wanted to have it again.

I had known it would come. As soon as I’d heard the detective’s voice in my ear, I had known that I would have to face these dreams—and possibly face reality.

Because the past had wrapped around me and hadn’t let me go quite as much as I’d thought it had.

My father was out of prison. The man who had helped to kill my sister. The asshole who had wrapped his arms around me and pretended to be kind and loving but had really been evil and treacherous.

Everyone who’d had a hand in killing my sister was no longer incarcerated. And they could be at my house at any moment. I hid from them. I had done what I could to make it so I was safe, but was I ever truly safe?

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know if there would ever be real safety for me.

“Get over it, Paris,” I whispered to myself before I pulled away from the wall and washed my hair and my body. I shaved my legs, rinsed off, and got ready for the day.

There was nothing I could do right now when it came to my past. I was as safe as I could be for the moment, even with my father out of prison. I needed to focus on what I could do, rather than the panic of the unknown and what uncertainties could slide through my fingertips at any moment.

I blow-dried my hair and then turned on music, pretending that I could dance away the fear and nightmares.

As I pulled my now-dry hair back into a clip so I could straighten it, I tilted up my chin and pulled out the concealer, dabbing it over the scratch mark. Probably not the best way to deal with things, but I didn’t want to field any questions about why I had scratch marks on my neck.

I had been the one to hurt myself this time. There had been no one else. The dreams that haunted me didn’t make flesh and blood from nothing, however. The idea of what had once been was something I needed to remember, even if I didn’t want to.

While my straightener heated, I finished the rest of my makeup, putting it on like armor. Not only to hide what I dreamed of from others, what I feared, but also to shield part of myself.

Nobody at work needed to know that I had any weaknesses. Some already saw me as weak because of who I was. Perhaps not all, and as an image of Prior filled my mind, I knew it wasn’t everybody. People like Benji were why I had to hide part of myself. I was the Shark because I thought they needed me to be. They called me those names because I had to be fierce in the image I projected.

And I lived with that.