How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It's the same as it always is.

The sun shines through the windshield, the radio is playing a rap song from last summer, and Miguel is in the passenger's seat telling some story about one of his friends. In the side mirror, I watch as trees zoom by and cars merge onto the highway in the next lane over.

I tell myself not to blink, not to close my eyes for even a second, but it always happens anyway, and I know this by now. The next time my eyes open, they're met with the blinding orange of the flames dancing on the crumpled hood and creeping towards the broken windshield.

The broken windshield.

Don't look, I tell myself. But I turn like always.

I turn and see Miguel's head pinned to his seat by the large shard of glass that's sticking out of his skull. His body is drenched in blood. And I scream, sobbing his name, hardly feeling the fire that eats at my arm.

I jolt awake, drenched in sweat and panting, staring up at the ceiling of a room that's still too unfamiliar to give me any comfort. My right hand reaches for my left arm under the covers, fingertips running over the rough flesh as I try to get my breathing back to normal.

Just another nightmare, I tell myself for what feels like the millionth time. You're in your room. You're fine.

Or as fine as I can be given the fact that I killed Miguel. As fine as I can be after what I saw in the locker room today.

Oh, God. Do not think about that.

A new, different wave of dread than usual washes over me, landing heavily on my chest. My breathing starts to pick up again, and I revert to my old therapy technique of trying to ground myself through the five senses.

What can I feel?

I can feel my scars. I feel my mattress, and the pillow under my head.

What can I smell?

I can smell the crisp, autumn air that drifts in through my cracked window. But there's something unpleasant underneath it—it smells like something burnt and rotten, mixed with the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

I screw my eyes shut as my heart picks up speed.

It's not real. It's just from the nightmare.

But I've never had this happen before, have I? In all my hundreds of nightmares since the crash, I've never had anything carry over into real life.

What can you hear? What can you hear?

I can hear my shaky breaths. The last of the surviving crickets chirping outside. The rustling of the yellow leaves on the tree in the backyard. I can hear...

Rasping.

Wheezing.

It must be me. I'm breathing heavier than I realize. I hold my breath, forcing the noise to stop.

But it doesn't.

It isn't me.

It's coming from near my closet doors.

I close my eyes even tighter as my body stiffens with fear. But images of Kayla's unhinged jaw and pallid skin, her jerky movements and popping bones fill my mind and send me shooting up with a panicked yell. My gaze snaps to the dark corner of my room, body braced with the expectation of seeing her there as my last living sight.

What I do see steals all the air from my lungs. As my sight adjusts to the darkness, it becomes undeniable, and tears begin to well as I take in the sight of Miguel.

He's standing there with half of his skin charred and barely hanging on to the muscle below it, his body and clothes drenched in blood that cascades from the plane of glass impaled through his head.

I whimper as his eyes, one clouded with blood, stare right into mine. As his chest rises and falls, the rasping continues, and I realize there's an underlying hiss—the sound of his skin searing, still smoking.

He opens his mouth, gurgling as blood pours out, flooding down his chin and hitting the wooden floor.

Through the bubbles of blood trapped in his throat, I can hardly recognize his voice as he tries to speak. I can barely make out the words, "Wasn't... You..."

I flinch when he chokes, coughing and sending drops of blood flying in my direction. When I open my eyes a second later, he's gone. He's gone and my room is filled with the light of morning.

I take in a stuttered breath as my eyes shoot around the room.

Was it really a dream?

I turn to the clock on my nightstand—it's 6:24. One minute before my alarm.

I sigh and take the minute to collect myself. It was a nightmare. I'm just not used to having ones that aren't about the crash; of course it got to me. And of course I had one after what I saw in the locker room yesterday.

Was that a dream too?

I rub my hands over my face, then through my hair. No. That was real. I know it.

I get out of bed, ignoring the nagging thought that what happened with Miguel just now had felt just as real as what happened in the locker room. 

It was a dream. Just a dream.

A splash of cold water on my face might do me a lot of good. I stretch, turn towards my door, and immediately freeze.

In front of my closet, on the old wooden floorboards, is an almost black, puddle-shaped stain at least a foot wide.

The realizations come pouring in all at once. I would have noticed it before. The blood from Miguel. It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a dream.

My stomach lurches and I stumble out of my room towards the bathroom, bursting through the door and hunching over the toilet.

It wasn't a dream.

double update today! 😁