Rayne bolted upright in the center of her bed, her heart pounding a deafening rhythm against her rib cage as breaths came in short, quick gasps. She clutched at her sweat-drenched T-shirt and stared into the darkness of her bedroom, trying to focus her eyes as they darted back and forth from shadowed corner to shadowed corner, searching for the person she knew was just there.
A dream. It was just a dream.
She couldn't catch her breath. It felt as though someone was sitting on her chest, preventing her lungs from expanding. She desperately grabbed for the lamp on her nightstand, and as soon as the light flooded the space, she jerked around, looking over every inch of the room.
Empty.
She leaned over and rested her elbows on her knees, face buried in her hands, trying to calm herself as she wiped away the auburn hair plastered to her forehead in a thin sheen of sweat. Her newfound paranoia and nightmares were getting out of hand and did nothing but make her angry.
Why? Why is it the same damn dream every time?
The perpetual string of questions that had haunted her since the break-in decided to rear their ugly heads as they had every morning for the past two weeks. Obviously, the incident had affected her more than she thought. At first, it hadn't really bothered her. She'd just assumed that it was a crime of opportunity. An individual saw an empty apartment and decided that there might be something of value inside.
I bet they were disappointed.
It wasn't until she discovered that absolutely nothing had been taken, that her mind began to throw every possible scenario into the mix. She started to worry about the true motives of the offender. She tried for days to convince herself that it was a mistake: Once the thief realized that she was just as bad off, if not worse than himself, he left with nothing, maybe out of pity, or something else perhaps.
The nightmares started shortly after. Every morning at four A.M., she would awaken exactly the same as she had just then, drenched in sweat, unable to breathe, and very nearly on the verge of a heart attack. Over and over, she relived the torture from a rancid monster with rotting teeth, putrid breath, and disgusting in every way imaginable. He would force himself on her as she lay helplessly restrained to her own bed, unable to move or even scream. She still could feel the slimy trail his repulsive tongue left on her neck and the way his greasy hands groped and pulled on her body.
That's all it had been at first, just her and the beast. That is, until she noticed the faceless stranger standing silently in the corner, watching.
After several days of enduring the vision, she became somewhat accustomed to it and realized that it wasn't as terrifying as it originally had been. Every time the vision came to her, she saw a little more detail about his features. Tonight, she was able to see his eyebrows and the faintest hint of color to his eyes. Blue, maybe?
Trying to recall every minuscule element to the stranger that had been plaguing her, she suddenly realized something that hadn't occurred to her till then: I could see his lips.
A shiver started at the top of her head and snaked its way down her spine, ending at the tips of her toes. Tiny bumps pricked her skin and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she let the image fade in and out, wondering if she'd really seen it or just imagined it.
Of course, you imagined it. It was a dream.
The fact alone that she could see his mouth was not what had bothered her. It was what was around it. There, at each corner, was a trail of blood dripping down his chin.
What? Why? Were those fangs? Is he a cannibal?
She shook her head at the next thought that emerged.
Now you're just being ridiculous.
Sighing, Rayne tried to push the thoughts from her head. Contemplating them any further would yield no new results and she decided not to waste her time.
Once more, emerald green eyes looked up to scan the room before coming to a rest on the corner behind the door. It was so vivid, all of it. Even when she knew that she was fully awake, she could still see him standing there. Pale skin, dark hair, and faceless, his non-existent eyes staring into her soul as the beast did his work, and then gone, just that quickly.
Grabbing the black elastic band from her nightstand, she quickly tied back the mess of curls hanging around her shoulders and down her back. With adrenaline still pumping through her veins, she stood and made her way out of the room and down the narrow hall to her kitchen, where she subconsciously went through the motions of making coffee. Her mind was far too occupied and busy elsewhere to really take note of what she actually was doing.
As much as she tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach brought on by the nightmare, she couldn't. The whole thing baffled her. First, she was a ten-dollar-an-hour waitress with no extraordinarily valuable possessions. She had a "survivable" apartment and a car that was just enough to get her from point A to B. She made do with what she had, but there was nothing to spare, and she constantly lived paycheck to paycheck, just like most of the residents in Ridgeton, Washington. She couldn't fathom what anyone could possibly want from that.
Second, suppose that she did have something of some importance. What was it? How did she get it? And why did he want it so badly? (Because she assumed the would-be thief was a "he") Was it valuable enough that he would come back? If she was there, would he kill her?
She pressed the start button on the coffeemaker and headed toward her bathroom. It was too much to try and process anything without at least having some sort of caffeine in her system and stumbling through her morning routine.
She flipped on the light and stepped into the decrepit space. It was cramped and in desperate need of updating, with hideous, powder-blue tile and a matching tub. The ceiling was splotched with water damage, and it was indecipherable through the hard water stains what color the sink originally had been. However, all in all, most days, it served its purpose.
She brushed her teeth and washed her face as usual but took an extra second to study her reflection in the dingy mirror. Her bright green eyes looked as though they had faded a shade or two, and dark circles marred the creamy flesh just below them.
"Another sleepless night with all this stress, and I'll be able to take the leading role in a zombie film and not even need stage makeup."
Which, amusingly enough, is exactly what she needed: Makeup. She opened the medicine cabinet and began to dig furiously through miscellaneous bottles and tubes until her hand landed on the one she sought. Pulling out her foundation, she grabbed a sponge and slathered it on.
It was so frustrating to have just one single event change her routines and perspectives so drastically. She wished she could just forget that it ever occurred in the first place. But that wasn't happening. She wouldn't call herself paranoid just yet, but it was beyond tiring to check the doors and windows three and four times before bed because she was afraid she may have missed something. It would eventually get better, but for the moment, it helped her cope.
Donning a pair of jeans and a green "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" T-shirt, Rayne made her way toward the delicious aroma of coffee filling the apartment. She poured a mug and turned on the morning news, leaning over the counter to gently blow on the steaming liquid before taking the first heavenly sip. She smirked to herself and imagined the snide remarks her best friend Layla would have been spouting right then. It was all too often she was heckled about being too responsible.
"What normal twenty-five-year-old drinks copious amounts of coffee, watches the morning news, and reads the paper?"
Rayne scoffed into her coffee at the memory. She was so surprised that her friend actually had used the word "copious," and correctly at that, that she'd let the comment go.
"You're a fifty-year-old woman trapped in the wrong body!"
She shook her head and laughed to herself as she made her way to the front door. A chilly blast of early March wind had her wrapping her arms around herself to fight off a shiver as she grabbed the paper and returned to the warmth of her small kitchen.
A stove, sink, refrigerator, and limited counter space made it just enough to be useful. The faded wooden cabinets and yellow Formica counters were just enough to make it repulsive. But she couldn't complain. It worked.
She'd only managed to remove the rubber band around the paper when her cell phone gave a resounding chime. "Who in the world?" The only person who ever called her was Layla, and she highly doubted that she was actually up this early. She generally classified early as getting together for a late brunch. She picked up the phone and was shocked to see that it was indeed her best friend.
She answered, a hint of laughter to her voice. "Ok, either my so-called bad habits have finally rubbed off on you, or someone is dead, and I seriously doubt that you are watching the news, so who is it? Do I need to buy a new dress?"
There was a short pause on the end of the line before she heard a slight chuckle. "Nope, you're spared a shopping trip yet again. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I AM actually watching the news. Are you?"
Rayne glanced up at the television for the first time since turning it on. The screen displayed a feed of Karla's Catfish Kitchen, the restaurant where she worked, and there were several police cars surrounding the building. Across the bottom of the screen scrolled the headline, "Local restaurant vandalized, but nothing stolen."
It took a moment for her to really register what she was seeing. Her heart skipped a few beats before racing enough that she thought it might actually explode. Eyes wide with disbelief, she lowered herself into the only bar stool she owned.
"Rayne?" Layla asked from the still open line.
She couldn't believe it. Was it a joke? It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? First home, then work? Either someone really was after something, or Washington had horrible thieves.
"Rayne!" Layla shouted.
She swallowed loudly and with difficulty before she was able to find her voice. "I... I'm here," she managed to get out through her shock.
"Are you ok?"
She needed to think, needed to make sense of it all. Staring, mouth agape, at the screen, she ran over a million different possibilities. At least one of them logically had to explain it away as mere ironic coincidence. Right?
It took a second for her to collect her thoughts enough to form more than two words. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said, trying to hide the nervousness and fear in her voice. Maybe if she pretended that it wasn't connected, then somehow it wouldn't be.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
There was something about Layla's voice that slightly annoyed her, almost as if she were prying for information and wanted questions answered. Rayne didn't know what to tell her. She had no more of an idea as to what was going on than did her friend.
"It's just a coincidence," she blurted, a little more defensively than she'd intended. "It has to be. Maybe they broke in and realized that we only leave a handful of cash in the building at night and decided it wasn't worth it."
Rayne nodded to herself. That's pretty logical.
Layla exhaled into the phone. Was that relief?
"Yeah, you're probably right."
Rayne took comfort in her reaction. If someone else could believe it, then maybe it wasn't so far-fetched after all.
"Well, I'm assuming that we won't be working today," Layla stated. "Want to grab some coffee later?"
Leave it to her harebrained companion to take advantage of an unfortunate situation. She was nearly having a meltdown, and Layla wanted to feed her caffeine addiction. Rayne smiled, but before she could respond, a knock at the door startled her.
"Hold on," she said quietly into the phone as she crossed the small living room yet again. She unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door just enough to peek through. On the other side stood two uniformed police officers and the owner of Karla's, Karla Stutson. For a moment, she was sure she'd seen a wave of worry cross the redhead's face, but it quickly disappeared. She swung the door open a little wider.
"Karla?" she half-stated, half-asked. "Is everything ok?"
Karla, with her overly-tanned skin and flaming red hair glued into place with excessive amounts of hairspray, nodded. As usual, she wore too much makeup and clothes that were too tight for her curvy figure. "Hi Rayne," she began. "This is Officer Bass and Keller." She gestured first to a short, wide man with a goatee, and then to the other, taller and more muscular.
Rayne nodded to both of them and realized she still held a phone with a waiting Layla on the other end. She gave a quick goodbye, but no further explanation, positive she would regret that later.
"They would like to ask you a few questions," Karla added.
She nodded and gestured for them to enter before offering some of her fresh-brewed coffee. "No thank you, Miss Slade." The short, stubby Officer Bass answered. "We're sorry to bother you so early, but this won't take long. It's about the break-in last night."
Well, so much for ironic coincidence. She already could see her logical explanation flying out the window at the speed of light. Rayne sighed and nodded, glancing at Karla, who returned a weak smile.
She resumed her position on the stool and sipped her coffee. "How can I help you?"