Page 55 of Breaking Isolde

I turn, and Rhett is there. His clothes are black, but he’s wearing the mask. Not the party one—a mask from some horror movie nightmare, blank and smooth and infinite. Where his face should be is nothing, a hole, sucking in all the air and sound. It hurts to look at him, like staring into the sun.

He moves toward me, not fast, but with the certainty that he’ll get to me in the end.

I try to run, but I can’t. My legs are lead. My mouth is glued shut again.

Rhett reaches for my arm. His hand is bone and ice.

“Found you,” he says, but the voice is wrong. It’s not his, it’s Dad’s, or Abelard’s, or every man at the Academy, mashed together.

He pulls me up, and I’m weightless. I try to kick, but my body isn’t mine.

He drags me to the center of the ring. All the faces are chanting now, louder and louder:

“Greenwood. Greenwood. Greenwood.”

I want to tell them I’m not her, I’m not Casey, I’m not anyone they want.

But the dream won’t let me.

Rhett turns me to face him. His mask cracks, a fault line running down the center.

I look inside and see my own face, warped and screaming, pressed against the glass.

He puts his hand on my throat, gentle at first, then tighter.

The world goes silent. The only sound is my heartbeat, wild and ragged.

The faces close in. I can’t breathe.

I wake up gasping, clawing at my own neck, sheets twisted so tight around my legs they may as well be ropes. Sweat soaks my scalp, trickling down my spine, stinging where I’d torn at myself in the dream.

I jerk upright, heart slamming, breath coming in wheezes. My body aches like I’d run a marathon. Every muscle locked, every nerve fried.

For a second, I think I see Casey at the foot of my bed. Hair hanging over her face, mouth open, eyes all black.

I blink, and she’s gone.

The room is gray, air dead. I check the clock: it’s almost four p.m. The fever is gone, but the dread is worse.

Rhett must have left at some point, but he left me water, Tylenol and a muffin.

Nice of him, I guess.

The ghosts of the dream won’t leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, empty and endless.

I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, and wait for the shakes to stop.

They don’t.

It’s just as well.

I deserve the nightmare.

I reach for the water glass. My hand is shaking so bad I spill half of it down my shirt. Doesn’t matter. I chug what’s left, then cough until my throat is raw.

The window is open a crack. The wind is freezing, but it feels nice on my skin. I sit there for a long time, just breathing. My arms and legs are noodles. My head’s so light it could float off.

Finally, I force my legs to work, standing carefully.