Dunes ((Scömìche Short Story))

03

Scott bolts upright in bed, chest heaving. His sheets are gone – no doubt tossed on the floor somewhere. He's burning with heat, and something else – a deep, unknown longing, those words haunting him again.

Come to me.

An ache fills his chest. His breathing is ragged, each inhale irregular and rasping. His throat feels too wet and yet dusty and dry. Parched.

As he blinks, the bright orange glow fades, green spots dotting his vision until it all fades into the darkness of his unlit bedroom. He finds the ambient blue of his bedside clock and rubs his eyes until he can make out the numbers: 10:43 pm.

Hunger suddenly washes over him, but it isn't the source of the other ache, the one that is still there. The other ache makes him feel lost, like he's forgetting something, but he isn't. Scott went to work, he thinks. He went home, he had a fever.

He shudders, the oppressive heat still surrounding him. A bead of sweat slides down his face, and he rolls over in bed, his hand landing in something dry and gritty as he pushes his torso up. He brings his hand to his face to try and see it, stomach dropping in horror as he remembers this morning.

Scott scrambles hurriedly to the light switch and turns to face his bed, face paler than white.

He backs against the wall, breathing heavily through his nose.

It's just like this morning.