I thought I'd woke from a fever dream. Back in the motel room, alone, with sun just creeping past the sill. I cried out in relief, thinking the ache in my legs was just night terrors. I nearly danced out of bed, pulling the shades up to kiss the dawn, praising the morning for saving me.
But a white scar shone on my breast, under the dark lace of my nightgown. Suppressing a scream, I reached down between my legs to feel the black wetness that lingered. It clung to my fingers like oil. I fell to my knees and gagged.
"No," I whispered. My eyes were catacombs. "No way in hell did I do that!"
I frantically scanned my room. There was a rose at the head of my bed, stem charred as if it'd been roasted. It sat like a wicked promise.
Revulsion seized me and I ran for the bathroom. I hurled til there was nothing but bile.
I didn't leave my room for days.
