Smoke and screams fill the air. I can’t breathe, can’t see, as I fall, and fall. I flail in the dark, reaching for any help, any hold to stop my descent—and hit the ground. Hard. Gasping for breath, I scramble to my feet and try to run, but the earth beneath me slips away and I can’t find enough friction to move. Panic thunders through me, as I stumble and fall again. Then, a sickly orange light shivers and stabs the darkness.

I know this place. I’ve been here before. 

Wake up.

Black sand surrounds me, stretching out in every direction. A warm wind whips up, and a sound follows; a deep, hollow roar that fills me with dread. I look up to a sky on fire; the arms of a hundred rising suns raging toward each horizon. Cold terror fills my throat, and I struggle to my feet, trying to run again as monstrous, shadowy shapes explode from the sand to surround me; their leering, familiar faces bathed in ash and blood.

Wake up.

splinter. 

Limp and hanging helpless in their grasp, I manage one ragged, rasping breath—and the sand rises up, surging into me like a living thing; filling my mouth, my throat, my lungs with a billion shards of black glass, each one slicing through me until I am fragmented; a thousand parts pain.

Wake up!

A hot wind, black with blood, lifts me, spinning me to the edge of the earth and dropping me into the centre of a roaring sun. I am blind, helpless, hopeless; my disembodied screams silenced by molten fire. And all the while someone, somewhere, is laughing; a high-pitched, maniacal howl that grows to a lunatic scream—and I gasp upright, tearing in panic at tangled sheets.

Safe. Whole. Not burning.

The scream is a siren splitting the night as a police car speeds past on the street below my window. I release a shuddering sigh as the dream slips away, leaving only fading fragments like reflections in broken glass, as I remember where I am.

Home. In bed. Hungry.

Extracting myself from the sheets, I get up, making my way across the dark flat to the fridge. My pale arm reflects the dim blue light that flickers on as I tug the door open and stare disbelieving at a pile of wrung out IV bags.

“Shit.”

I forgot. Fresh out.

Wait, this doesn’t make any sense. Jude was just here, wasn’t he? Bleary-eyed, I lean in and rummage through, squeezing out a few of the bags in denial, hoping a drop might be left. But no. 

I stand up, leaving the fridge door open as the room comes into focus. Rubbing a cool hand over my face, I turn to the sink and drop the bag in my hand. Piled next to the basin are more bags. Empty. The counter and sink are stained crimson.

“Shit!”

This is wrong. Very wrong. Wide awake now, I check the doors, front and back, then the security shutters on every window. Locked tight. I check the alarm. Still armed. No one could have got in. Not without waking me. I move back to the sink, grip the edge with both hands and stare at the dark stain around the drain. The sharp tugging in my gut tells me that I did this, no one else.

I dumped it all out.

My stomach groans at the thin, metallic scent, and makes me painfully aware of the burning ache inside. I wipe at the sink and counter with my hands, licking my fingers in vain hope, but there’s not much there, and what’s left has gone off.

Way off.

Fighting panic, I dart to the fridge and rip open all the empty bags, one by one, licking the plastic clean. Not enough. Fuck. Okay. Have to calm down. I stand there for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. But instead of calm, the terror from the nightmare rises again.

Swearing under my breath, I hurry back across the flat and grab my mobile from the bedside. I left it charging, thank the gods, but it’s set to silent. Another thing I don’t remember doing. I hit last call and wait.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Okay, he’s upset. I must’ve slept longer than I thought.

“Listen, Jude, I need some more.”

“You’ve been out of touch for three weeks, Rue! Would it kill you to pick up the phone?”

“Probably not.” I sigh. Better make nice, he’s in a bad mood, and I should’ve called. “I just tend to sleep a lot when it’s like this. Summer. You know.”

“No, I don’t know. You’ve never done this before! You know, friends are supposed to tell each other about things like this so friends won’t be sick with worry when friends don’t ring them back!”

“Yeah.” I close my eyes, rubbing at a needling headache. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been this bright for this long for a few years, and—anyway, look. This isn’t something I want to talk about right now.”

“Right. You and the phone thing. No one’s listening, you know. These days, nobody cares.”

He thinks I’m paranoid. Maybe I am. But I’m still alive. I wince as the headache moves to the back of my skull, like it’s got a mind of its own. Fucking hell. I start to massage it away again, then what he said sinks in.

“Three weeks?”

“And a bit.”

“Shit.”

“What’s going on with you? Are you okay?”

I shake my head and run a hand through my sleep-tangled hair. “I’m fine. Only I really need some more. Tonight.”

Jude sighs on the other end. “Okay. I’ll leave now. But it’ll be a while.”

Shit.

I’m already shaking, and my skin is coarse and dry. I can feel it, drawing in around my bones. Nearly a month with nothing. This isn’t good. Sleeping so long, blacking out, wasting it all like that—

“Rue?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you last?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

I end the call, throw the phone on the bed, clean up the mess, make certain everything’s back in its proper place, and head downstairs to my library.

Have to stay in control.

Twisting my hair up, I push a couple of chairs out of the way and lay out a small round Persian rug. I do a short meditation, then move into Asanas. The practice is one of the few things that have kept me sane over the years, but tonight I struggle to stay focused. Every time I close my eyes, images from the dream rise, taunting me. Trying to shake it off, I slip into what is usually an easy rhythm of ancient forms I’m sure modern practitioners would love to get their hands on; moving smoothly with each breath. In. Out. Again. Not working.

Frustrated, I try another short meditation, then move into my usual martial arts practice. Tonight every stance is off however, and it’s difficult to stick with it. I’m impatient. Restless. Hungry. After an hour or so I give up, and head for the shower. I can feel my blood stir, weak and weedy through my veins; and my heart jumps and flutters in my chest, arrhythmic. Starved. Not good. I turn the tap to cold and get in. The water brings relief, for the moment anyway, and I stand under the spray for a while, trying to calm down.

That damn dream. Every time I sleep, it’s always the same, and I can’t shake the feelings that come with it. Panic. Terror. Helplessness. 

That’s the worst of it. Being out of control. The images flash through my mind again, the lingering emotion mingling with my hunger, making me anxious. Edgy.

Fuck it. I need to get out. I’ll take a walk, clear my head and kill some time before Jude gets here. I turn the tap to hot and finish washing, then get out, dry off, and dress quickly, sunblock first—better safe than sorry—then jeans, T-shirt, harness boots, a couple of light scarves, hoodie, gloves, and my favourite leather jacket. Layers are important, and I like mine in varying shades of black. I grab my phone and a pair of sunglasses as I head out.

I live in a restored Georgian house. It’s one of many such buildings on the quays, and one of a handful of properties I own around Dublin. I use the top two floors to live in, the next for storage, the ground floor I lease to an antique bookseller, and the cellar I’ve converted to a garage. On the whole, it’s convenient, private and safe. Plus, the shop gives me extra security during the day. The owner and his employees don’t know much about me, only that I’ve a keen interest in old and rare books, and so charge an exceedingly reasonable rent. Such things make for loyal, unquestioning tenants.

Which is very good for someone like me.

Taking the back stairs all the way down, I cut through the hall behind the bookshop to the lane outside, re-setting the alarm before leaving.

I stand for a moment on the cobblestones, taking in the evening. It’s late summer, and although it’s after ten, the sun has only just set behind the buildings. Its dying light is reflected in the Liffey, giving the city a scarlet glow as night creeps up the eastern sky.

I slip through Saturday night crowds smoking outside pub doors, making myself unnoticeable—although I notice them; the life and heat radiating from their bodies in tempting waves, the rivers of red that run beneath their skin. Again, the thing in my gut twists and stabs, sharp enough to make me gasp, so I move faster, farther away. Past the Custom House, past new bridges and century-old warehouses, until I’m meandering deep into the old and empty industrial streets that border the river as it widens toward Dublin Bay.

Giant cranes loom over soon-to-be shiny new glass and steel towers, being built to replace crumbling old warehouses of brick and stone. Their half-finished skeletons rest like bones in some colossal elephant graveyard, shadows criss-crossing one another, creating patterns of light and dark that would usually entrance me. But tonight, I’m too restless, worried and hungry to be entranced by anything. I still can’t believe I dumped everything out. It isn’t like me to waste anything; every drop is precious. And to pour it down the sink? I wouldn’t ever do that. But I did. Okay. So why? Frustration claws at me, threatening any calm and birthing a growing anxiety; like I’ve forgotten something important, and when I remember, it‘ll be too late.

At the next street, I turn and head for the docks. I need space. 

The night grows darker as I walk, bringing some relief from the shaking in my veins. I pick up the pace, and soon enough reach the North Wall, winding my way out through the Docklands. It’s quiet enough here, and I calm down a bit, letting the night enfold me like a mother’s embrace. It’s then, as I’ve nearly relaxed, that I hear the gritty scuff of a misstep on gravel behind me. As I round the next corner, I glance over my shoulder—and a shadow darts back into a lane.