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FOURTEEN

I’m running. My chest feels like it’s about to burst, each intake of freezing air piercing my insides, but I must keep moving forward. To give up now would be to die.

Something is following me. In my periphery, dark shadows creep, and I’m too focused to face them, but I can feel the approaching danger. An urgent voice tells me to keep going.

Next thing I know, I’m flat on the ground. Did I fall? Was I pushed? My palms feel wet soil, thick and clumpy, making it difficult for me to find my bearings.

Someone is standing over me. One of the shadows, a phantom, ready to pounce?—

I wake up with a start, gasping for breath, much like I did after my night terror.

Slowly, I familiarize myself with my surroundings.

My cotton bed sheets, my lumpy pillows, the hard rectangle of my cell phone beside my head.

It’s nearing six o’clock in the morning, much earlier than I usually get up, but I’m home. I’m safe.

Still, my chest feels like there’s a drum inside it, the adrenaline only starting to fade.

This is my second night terror in recent weeks; before this, it was almost a decade.

Reluctantly, I think back to the conversations with my mother.

She’s worried about me this time of year, and I hate to admit she might be right.

Perhaps the past has a firmer grip than I’d like to admit, and trying to fight it just makes the grasp that much stronger, a python coiling tight around what’s trying to break free.

Or maybe this is all in my head, and my dreams are my subconscious’ way of telling me to slow down.

I roll over, staring at the bare wall across from me.

It mirrors the blank canvas in my mind. Ten years ago, my mistakes caused something terrible to happen.

I dropped out of college, sending my future down a different path, and after all this time, I’m still not sure where I’m headed.

As much as I want to admit I’m fine, it isn’t true, and maybe those insecurities have manifested in paranoia, about the present and about those around me.

My conversation with Chaz last night is still fresh.

We need proof, not speculation . Did I really think one of my writing group members was out to get me?

That one of them had been behind the black hearts all along?

All because of two incidents that were similar to the stories from our group?

I must have sounded like a complete maniac, and now, in the quiet and dark of early morning, I’m starting to wonder if I am.

Just as in my most recent night terror, maybe the person I’m running from is myself, my own worst enemy for the past decade and more.

Fully awake, I pick up my phone and begin scrolling.

No new emails, which means Night Beat is still a lost cause, but at least I didn’t receive another rejection.

My mind isn’t awake enough to even consider writing, so I scroll through social media, waiting out that awkward intermission between getting up and starting the day or rolling back over and returning to sleep.

A couple of posts down is when I see it, an article from a local newspaper that’s been shared several dozen times, despite the early morning hour:

Breaking Overnight: WU Student Killed

Whitaker PD confirms a female body was discovered last night in a drainage ditch close to campus.

Emergency services were dispatched, and the victim was pronounced dead at the scene.

A name has not been released, but officers did confirm the female victim was a WU student.

A cause of death has not been released, but foul play is suspected.

They are waiting to notify the next of kin before releasing further details.

I read and re-read the short article. A female student murdered. Her body left in a drainage ditch. Just like in my story.

Desperate for more information, I type targeted phrases into the search bar. Sure, the police might be waiting for confirmation, but no one else is ever that patient. There must be information out there about a woman murdered, a student missing, at least.

It doesn’t take long for me to find it. Post after post with sparse information, mainly pictures and short captions.

RIP Jessica

Prayers for your friends and family

My best friend, never forgotten

It’s the same person in each photo. A plain-faced brunette with bangs that rest just above dark eyes.

She’s smiling, carefree. A woman in her early twenties who could never have predicted her life would end so soon.

The media and police haven’t announced it yet, but this must be the WU student that was murdered.

Below the last photo, a recent comment grabs my attention. A black heart.

It’s not just one, but several, each left in a separate post by the same user. They rain down the comments section, leaving a trail for me to follow.

I immediately click on the user’s profile, but the account is private.

Empty, really, with no friends or recent posts.

A random mourner leaving a flurry of black hearts on a post about a murdered woman.

What are the odds? Other people have left hearts and similar emojis to express their condolences, but I can’t shake the feeling that these symbols were meant for me.

Another story from the group re-enacted in real life. Another black heart left for me to find.

I fall back on my bed, staring wide-eyed at the dark ceiling. The doubts from earlier go away, and a new reality takes shape in my mind. This is more than another coincidence, and now it seems whoever is copying our stories—this time my story—is escalating. From vandalism to assault to murder.