In the Wake of A Nightmare

As I gazed through the French doors, a sweep of turquoise water stretched before me, waves crashing against the cliffs below with a rhythm that pulsed in my ears. This was the trip I had been longing for, and now that I was wrapped in its vivid reality, I felt lifted to a kind of heaven.

The scent of lemon trees and lavender drifted upward, carrying me deeper into a reverie within this dreamscape. I’d traveled south before, but never to the Mediterranean—this felt like the vacation of all vacations. It had been an impulse, unplanned, and yet when I opened my eyes to it, there was no trace of regret. The credit card bill could wait.

And yet, beneath the sweetness in the air, I caught a faint metallic tang, sharp enough to unsettle me. For a moment I couldn’t tell if it came from the sea or from somewhere inside me, like the taste of blood at the back of the throat. I brushed the thought aside, but a quiet unease lingered, thin as a shadow trailing the sunlight.

A figure moved across the terrace, sunlight catching the curve of his shoulder as he poured two glasses of wine. His presence felt both familiar and strange, as though I had known him forever and when he turned to face me, I knew his face. Him, here? Why is he here? When he smiled, the world seemed to decay—the sea roared louder, the lavender stirred as if in mourning. He lifted the glass towards the window, to me, and for a heartbeat everything shattered with uncertainty.

But even in my haze I noticed the way his shadow stretched longer than it should have, spilling across the stones like ink. His eyes lingered on me with tenderness, yes, but also with something unreadable, a weight I couldn’t name. Still, I craved the wine. I wanted to drink until the sweetness burned down my throat, numbing me from the bitterness I already knew would follow.

The thing about choices is that they shadow you. The good ones, the bad ones—they cling, until they twist into something haunting, something inescapable. They follow you even to the sun-drenched depths of the Mediterranean, no matter how violently you’ve tried to sever them at the throat.

I get dressed, slug dragging me to the floor. If he is here, I don’t want to see him. I thought I had exorcised this problem years ago, yet every time I reach a fragile semblance of happiness, there he is, popping up, a grim reminder, a conscience wearing the face of my undoing.

I make my way downstairs to the veranda, passing the kitchen, my hand reaching for a glass of orange juice. I’ll add champagne, crafting my own fragile mimosa before taking the wine he leaves behind like a poisoned gift.

The sunshine warms my skin, but not my mind, as I approach the chair. I shift from horizontal to lateral, a small surrender to stillness. It’s comforting to be sedentary when my usual state is relentless motion. I wonder if I am always moving to outrun the choices I thought I had buried, severed, killed. But perhaps they are never dead—only waiting, patient and hungry.

The warmth feels unreal, as I slide into the chair. Holding my mimosa steady. My heart is slow, trying to believe in calm but how can I relax when he is here? Something coils in the corner of my vision, a shadow that shouldn’t be, it’s him.

At first, it is him, human enough, but the edges ripple and stretch. His strong jaw cracks open too wide, teeth glinting sharp like knives, transformed into fangs that are dripping with something sour, metallic, my blood. I look down at my arm and see the lacerations. His eyes flare—yellow, molten, burning with a hunger that want to gnaws at the marrow of my bones.

I try to rise, but my legs feel made of lead. In that moment I can feel the air thicken, rancid and sweet, smelling of rotten blood and wet fur. He lunges. Not a man, not a wolf, but a twisted hybrid, sinew tearing, claws tearing at the space around me, trying to catch me once more. The sound of his desire is a wet, tearing, chorus of teeth trying to devour his revenge.

I run, or try to but the veranda stretches like rubber, warping beneath me. Each step breeds a molasses like resistance; each breath tastes of iron and smoke. Shadows flicker across my vision: snippets of him chasing, snapping, devouring everything I thought I was. My chest burns; my scream is silent as its swallowed by the thick, hot air.

Every choice I thought I forgave rises from the ashes, clawing at him, through me, until it is impossible to tell if the monster is outside or inside. He lunges at me gain, and I fall backwards over the railing to the depths of the cliff below. I am falling, tumbling, stabbed by the rocks below spewing blood that isn’t mine but feels like it should be.

And then—

I jerk awake. Sheets tangled, the Mediterranean gone, sunlight soft and ordinary on my skin. I look around to see my room. My heart hammers, wild and alive. I taste fear on my tongue, the phantom of my choices clawing still in my ribs but slowly reseeding into the shadows once more.

I lie there, trembling, caught between relief and the terrible knowledge that some monsters never really sleep and neither do the choices that created them.