I can’t breathe. A weight pins me down. Someone whispers in the dark, the words tangled and wrong. I claw at nothing, lungs burning, and I wake choking, as if I’ve dragged the nightmare with me.

 My head pounds in time with my pulse.

 I throw the blanket aside and sit at the edge of the bed, massaging my temples.

 A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

 Breathe. Once. Twice.

The room is empty. Enzo is gone. An unknown feeling settles in my chest.

 I can’t believe I fell asleep.

I stand, still heavy with exhaustion, and grab my notebook and the bourbon bottle from the bar, two shots left, maybe. If I don’t move now, the nightmare will crush me.

The house is dark, quiet, as I cross it barefoot. A strange calm hangs in the air, as if something is about to happen.

 I thought they would be night creatures, as killers, criminals, whatever they are. But no.

Mark is on the couch, shoes still on, back straight even in sleep. Sometimes I’m sure he just pretends. At least he’s using the pillow I left there.

 Jace… I haven’t heard his voice. He vanishes into his room before sunset. He looks so absent, like at any moment the breeze will take him away.

The grass chills my feet. The sweet scent of crossvine and black cosmos drifts around me.

 I reach my spot under the old lantern in the garden, tie the apron on, and sit at the stool.

I glance at the silent house behind the canvas. 

Rem is nowhere to be seen. He sleeps until late if he can and takes naps. But when he’s awake, he prowls, noisy. He talks too much, yet somehow knows more than he lets on. He doesn’t just tease limits, he pushes until something cracks… and enjoys it

And Enzo… his light is still on. I don’t even know if he ever sleeps.

 Earlier, he came into my room. Annoyed me.

 What does he want from me?

 Why is his stare always so… intense? And why does he have to look so fucking good?

 Something must be wrong with me. My chest keeps tightening, my cheeks keep flushing, and I can’t stop it.

I clear my throat. No need to think about that now. Focus.

 Headphones on.

 Scroll through songs until I find the one.

 Volume high.

 The familiar song of Disturbed swallows the quiet.

 I open the paint can, stare at the canvas. Almost finished.

 I take a deep breath, letting the smell of oil paint and turps fill my lungs.

 I tie my hair back, grab my notebook, and stare at the blank page.

 And write.

 Not carefully. Not beautifully.

 Just what it is.

I rip the page.

 Crumple it tight in my fist, as if I could crush the memory itself.

 Then drop it into a tray of thick, dark green paint.

 The paper soaks it up slowly.

 I watch.

 Take another breath.

 Feel the warm night breeze.

I soothe myself with the music thumping in my headphones and I pour myself one and down it in one go. Only one left now.

Fresh page.

 I can do this.

The pressure behind my eyes grows unbearable.

 I stop. Enough for tonight.

 I rip that page too and drop it in the same tray of paint.

And I drown the last of the bottle

Breathe.

 Once.

 Twice.

 Until the pressure of the tears starts to soothe.

A faint trace of tobacco drifts in, I look up.

 Enzo on the balcony. Looking at the sky.

 Dressed in black, moonlit and half-shadowed. It’s compelling, like a storm starting to unleash… the deep and menacing growl of thunder, the shades of gray swirling, the sudden strike of lightning.

I’d like to paint him like that. A dark god at rest.

 Yes. That’s a good idea.

I note it down, glance back at the tray of ruined pages.

 If I look at him too long, I’ll forget what I was doing.

When the paper is soft enough, it clings when I press it into the canvas. I keep molding it, smearing it, until it becomes what I want.

This time: part of the treetops of a dark forest illuminated by a scarlet moon.

 No one will know what’s underneath.

 But I will.

Maybe whoever buys it will take those memories away.

 I laugh, humorless.

 I should know better.

 They never leave.