Killing Mila (wildfire: rewritten)

8. Animal Instinct

The dream unfolds with uneasy familiarity: someone is following me, and they're gaining on me fast. Pulsing, white lights cast a ghostly glow over the dancefloor, but it's still so impossibly dark. I can barely make out the shape of my hands in front of me. I have no idea if I'm heading in the right direction; all I know is that I have to run. I have to leave. I have to find a way out of here.

My heart pounds. Faceless, dancing bodies fence me in, impeding my progress. No matter how hard I shove, it feels like trying to break through a brick wall. There's no way through. But still, I try – because I know if I stay, I'm dead.

I push, and push, nails tearing viciously at on the arm of one of the dancers, shoulders heaving with the effort it takes to yank him forward – and then I'm slipping past, thrusting myself into the small space I've managed to create between shoulders. I hurtle forward, flying right into the path of someone else.

I fall against them, grasping onto their arms for balance, then look up, into their face –

And it's her.

The dead girl.

Horror spirals through me. Her face is ravaged and decomposing. One eye socket is completely eaten away and her flesh is peeling back from bone. The other eye is glassy and white, staring unseeingly, her lips little more than stringy, blackened tissue. Cold, fleshy fingers grasp my elbow, clinging to me, pulling me back to her even as I fight to escape.

I scream.

That's when I wake up, gasping and choking on air. I can't breathe. My legs and arms are tangled in the duvet; I kick and shove it off, wrestling with it, until I'm free. Then I reach for the beside lamp, only managed to take a full, deep breath when light finally illuminates the dark corners of my room.

There's nothing there. No rotting corpses hanging from hooks. No dead girls lying in wait.

My heart rate slowly returns to normal, and my breathing calms. I brush my sweat-slick hair back from my forehead, knowing the rest of the night is probably a write off. There's no way I'm going to fall back asleep now.

I slip on my bathrobe and climb out of bed, walking barefoot into the bathroom. I take the glass from the sink and let the faucet rub absently, avoiding the mirror. I'm almost afraid to look, in case I see her there in the reflection.

Not that it matters; my mind is still playing the end of my nightmare over and over on a loop. Sighing, I force myself to stop being an idiot, and look. Surprise, surprise: the only ghost in the mirror is me. In the yellow light, my skin looks washed out and pale. Dark shadows circle my eyes like bruises. My cheekbones look sharper, more defined, and the apple of my cheeks look more hollow than plump. I've lost weight in the last few weeks. More weight than my body can afford to lose.

I take a sip of water, forcing myself not to think about it. Not to run through the possibilities of what it might mean. I've been under a lot of stress, and I'm sick with tonsilitis. It's nothing.

I drain the glass, gulping it down, and turn the faucet.

I'm debating whether to climb into the shower when I hear it: a sharp, scratching noise coming from downstairs. My body goes still. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It sounds like a key scraping over metal – like someone attempting to push a key into a lock, and missing.

Fuck, I think. Lexie?

I can't tell if it's coming from inside the house, or outside. What if she's trying to get in? I haven't heard from her since she moved back in with Darren, but he could have kicked her out again. It could be the fucking wind. Or maybe this is it. I'm about to be murdered.