Shatter Me At Dawn

3

When I woke it was so dark that I couldn’t even register that my eyes were open. I’m not one to wake up in the middle of the night—or even early morning, really—but I must have woken up because I could sense something was different. I sat up with a start, my eyes straining into the black. It suddenly felt imperative that I see. That I force myself to see. My heart rose from the sedate beat of sleep into a gallop—there was something wrong.

Very wrong.

The first outline to come into view was along the wall. The outline of curtains drawn tight against a single window beside me. Close—too close. My bedroom windows were larger and there were three of them, against two walls.

My bedroom…I flipped through my mental recollection of the night before but—there was nothing. I couldn’t remember ever coming home.

I sat up fully, the thin blankets slipping into my lap. I scanned the room again, my stomach clenching in fear. The dim outlines of a bed, a tiny closet, a cluttered dresser, a nightstand, some kind of large, raised box directly to my left materialized as I forced my darting eyes to see.

And then nausea rose into my throat. This was not my room.

Perhaps—

I tore through my mind, trying to grasp at memories as tangible as smoke. I had been out with my friends—perhaps I had drunk too much, went home with a stranger. But I hadn’t even hit my drinking limit, why would I have blacked out? I’d always been careful, so careful. I always went back to my place. Although if someone had put something in my drink—

Something stirred beside me. I startled, jumping to my knees, the blankets tangling around me. The something was a small, warm ball that had been nestled into my side. A miniature head pulled itself from the huddled ball, large dark eyes bleary with sleep.

“Mommy?”

I recoiled with horror, scrambling off the bed, my toes digging into an unfamiliar, rough carpet.

“What the hell?” I whispered, panic coursing through my veins. I looked down at myself. My hands were trembling but—they were still mine. But gone were the lacy, silken nighties I always slept in. Instead I was dressed in an oversized T-shirt—a man’s T-shirt—and loose flannel pajama bottoms.

“Mommy,” whispered the small voice again. “Are you okay?”

A scream rose in my throat. Who’s child was this? Where was I? What was happening? I turned from side to side, frantic, looking for an escape. But an escape from what?

A bad dream. This was just a bad dream—

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Wake up. Wake up.

When I opened them again, the doorknob rattled. In nightmares, it was always something terrible that forced it’s way into the room. Your greatest fear, something that haunted your subconscious. I shrunk against the wall, backpedaled into the corner as far from the door as possible, my pulse thundering through my body. The wall was cool on my fingertips, slightly bumpy from an imperfect paint job. Too real.

The door swung open and a figure filled the doorway. The dark obscured any details, making it appear nothing but a shadow.

Then blinding light. I flinched, my wide-open eyes slamming shut, overwhelmed. A cry tore from me, like some kind of wild animal suddenly snared in a trap. But when my eyes finally adjusted, the shadowy figure in the doorway materialized into a man, his palm still hovering over the light switch.

He was a couple inches over six feet and dressed in simple work clothes, with an inviting face and soft eyes rounded in concern. Yet there was also something hard in the set of his jaw, something determined and unyielding.

“Who are you,” I rasped, my head swinging between the child wrapping himself deeper into the blankets on the bed and this strange man.

“I’m your husband,” said the man, as careful with the words as he might be with delicate china.

“No.”

“I’m Ben?” He said it like a question, like an invitation I was supposed to accept.

“No,” I said, my eyes darting for an escape. “I don’t have a husband. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The man ran a hand through a thick mane of sandy-blond hair, his brow furrowing. “They told me this could happen.”

“Who told you?” My attention snapped back to him. I licked my lips, pulse racing. My mouth had gone dry. “What kind of trick is this? Is this some kind of sick game? I swear to god I will kill—”

“Not a trick,” Ben said, genuine concern haunting his eyes. He gestured at the room around us. “This is as real as it gets.”

I shook my head again. “No, no, that’s not right…I’m Sophie Andress.” Sophie Andress. Sophie Andress. I held onto that bit of information I knew was true like a lifeline. My name. That was my name. No matter what was happening here—a waking nightmare, a hallucination—at least I knew my name.

“You’re Sophie Walker.“

Walker? I was Sophie Andress; I had cars, I had money, a house with glorious bathtubs…

“I live on 648 Skyview Court—”

“You live here.”

The beginnings of a throbbing headache awoke deep inside my head.

“My friends are Lex and Asha and Janet—“

“You were in an…accident—“

A thin wail arose from the corner of the room from the box at the side of the bed. Ben made a move toward the sound, but stopped when I flinched away from him.

I stared at the box, at the unfamiliar sound. Tiny fists emerged from within the box, pounding the air.

“What is that?” I said, voice trembling.

“A baby,” said Ben slowly. “Your baby.”

Ben didn’t move from his spot in the doorway, not wanting to scare me further. But he bit his lip, shooting glances between me and the infant. Like he was ready to swoop in between me and the child if I suddenly flipped.

I crept toward the bassinet—the baby’s wails becoming more urgent—until I could see a tiny pink bundle, a small doll face screwed up in a red and angry scream. Her hair was dark, like mine, but she was tiny, so tiny….

“What is going on?” I whispered, extending a tentative hand toward the small bundle. “Where am I?”

The infant quieted at my touch, closing her eyes and making soft sucking noises.

Ben slowly, gently stepped up behind me. Nothing about him was familiar, not his movements, not his scent. He noticed me tense as he neared and stopped. I could sense him opening his mouth, closing it again, not knowing what to say. Finally, he spoke.

“There’s someone you need to talk to.”