“Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer–both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

“It’s fucking raining so hard, it reminds me of when we had the flood and I got stuck in the second story at the Palms. But I feel like this one isn’t going to drown us, it’s going to fucking blow us away. ”

She was sitting in bed writing to give herself something to do while she waited for his return, something to distract her from the growing anxiety the storm had brought on. And yet it had been almost physically impossible to pick up the notebook and leave the little black velvet box behind, so she’d brought it out too and now kept it under the notebook–just in case she needed. Just in case. She’d already smoked a whole joint and a second one sat in the ashtray waiting to be lit. Just in case. At times her chest felt so tight she couldn’t breathe, and her heart felt like it was going to pound its way out of her chest. She had trouble focusing on something besides worrying about the inch of water on the diner floor or whether or not the tables had flipped over, and if he was safe out there. She kept telling herself they would be fine, that the storm would blow over and the sun would come out again, making their dismal dirty little town look clean and washed. But for now… for now all she could hear was the howling wind, the pelting rain, the rattling of her door, the crack and whip of the tarp outside, and they were all telling her that mother nature had decided that those that had survived the infection weren’t fit to live any-fucking-way. That she didn’t deserve be fucking happy.

“I can’t even think of anything to say. I’m trying so hard to be good. I keep thinking that writing this shit will help me focus and make me forget and distract me from all the other shit, but I’m not sure it’s working. I want it all to stop! I want to find a button somewhere and make it all stop.”

The past few weeks had been so good she had almost forgotten about the box buried at the bottom of her trunk. She knew it was there, she’d never forget. Just having it and knowing exactly where it was at all times had a calming effect on her. But she hadn’t needed it, or really thought of it, or even cared to look at it as she sometimes did. She reminded herself that she was strong, that her skin wasn’t criss-crossed and marked as bad as some she’d seen. That her scars, though still there, were minimal. That she only did it when she lost control, because most times when things felt a little edgy it was enough to take it out and open it and look, just remind herself that she had it if she needed it. But she could usually close it back up and stick it back in the trunk just fine without touching its contents, or letting them touch her..

Lately she hadn’t even done that. She’d been happy, content, calm. She’d gotten up early every morning and tended a fire and made breakfast. She did her laundry every Monday, cooked most of the day, helped others when she could. She’d slept feeling warm, content, safe–cherished, adored, held.

Squeak. Snap.

Smoking another joint was out of the question.   She wouldn’t be able to stand not having control of herself at a time like this.  What if she had to go out and help someone?  What if someone came pounding at her door needing her, or worse, brought bad news?  What if she had to get out of there because of flooding?  She just had to wait, to be patient.  She began doodling around the words she’d written, scratching out words and names she hadn’t realized she’d written either.

And then the door opened.

And the world tilted just a little bit in her favor.