Page 3 of Those That Don’t Exist (Hidden Vampires #1)

“Not eating?” Bree raises an eyebrow at me as she joins me, diving into her porridge to go pot. Me not having breakfast was unheard of, I’d always insisted on it before.

“I’m not hungry. Nerves,” I say as a way of explanation. It's true, I’m nervous, but that never stopped me munching on a breakfast bagel before. The bigger truth is I’m almost never hungry anymore, but I don't want to alarm them.

Since the accident I’ve noticed I just don't like food anymore. I mostly eat when I know I really need to but food has lost its appeal. Grief hits in strange ways, I guess, and I’m sure I’ll be ok soon. Least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“You’ll be fine, see your professors, find out how to catch up and knowing you, you’ll be ahead on the curriculum by the winter break,” Claire tries to reassure me as she joins us too and we start walking towards the lecture halls.

Bree gives us both a quick hug and dashes off to the studios, her mornings spent on various dance practices.

Claire and I share a few classes, including this one on architectural history, so we head into our lecture room and find seats near the back.

As my recovery took so long it was already four weeks into the term. I’d had to beg the university to let me start now and not defer a term. They argued that missing even a few weeks of my final year would leave me at too much of a disadvantage.

I knew if I couldn’t come back now I would’ve allowed the wallowing to sink in. I needed to get back to normal, whatever this new normal was. Thankfully my excellent grades and dedication of the previous years persuaded the university to let me catch up rather than wait.

The lecturer enters at the bottom of the hall and walks up to the lectern to start the session. I settle in, blocking everything else out except for the subject being discussed.

That’s how I get through the several lectures and seminars on my schedule today. I take notes, keep quiet, and at the end stay behind to receive the work I’d missed. Some professors are supportive, others tell me I’ve made the wrong choice coming back. All have that air of pity I hate.

Going between classes wasn’t as bad as I had been imagining, thankfully.

A few people recognised me and I overheard a few bits of gossip which contained my name but I just stuck my headphones in and turned my music up louder.

A few students, whom I vaguely knew from the previous terms, talked to me as though I wasn’t fragile, or recently orphaned, and for that I was hugely grateful.

Hours later, feeling tired and drained, I’m finally opening my bedroom door and flopping down on my bed with my satchel still slung across my body. At least I have something to focus on now, tasks to do, books to read, essays to write. It would help me, I was sure, to keep myself together.

Laying on my back I scrub my hands over my face. I’d survived the day.

I take a couple of minutes to just let my mind blank out before I move. When the darkness starts creeping in I force myself to sit up. Shuffling around, I get comfy, sitting cross legged, and pull everything out of my bag.

I begin to build myself a schedule with all the ‘to do’s’ I’d noted during today’s classes. If I could just get a timetable in place, something I could stick to, I would feel much more in control of my life again. This is what I needed.

Jolting upright I snatch the duvet to me and stare out at the pitch darkness.

Breathe in, Breathe out.

I repeat the words, elongating them to try and slow my breathing, which is borderline hyperventilating.

Sweat pours down my back and pain lances through my left wrist, so much so I drop the duvet to grip it with my right hand. I look down at the scar, massaging the jagged half moon line that runs from the base of my palm round and over the veins of my wrist.

It had throbbed when I’d regain consciousness in the hospital and I’d had several spells like this since. Tonight it was particularly bad. As a fresh wave of burning pain shoots up my arm, I have to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop any sound from escaping my throat.

Doctors didn't know the specific cause of the injury, which had needed stitches, but in their eyes it had healed fine, and was one of my minor injuries. They were stumped when I complained of ongoing pain, passing it off as a trauma response. After a while I pretended it no longer hurt because they weren’t going to do anything.

It subsides after a while and I lie back down.

Turning onto my side, I clutch my wrist, folding my arms in towards my chest. Tears start falling from my eyes even though I try my hardest not to let them.

The images of the dream that woke me play front and centre in my brain once more.

I don't know why I call it a dream when it's truly a nightmare.

I try to shove the images away, forcing myself to think of nothing but my breathing. It doesn’t help. As I slip back towards unconsciousness they return full force.

We’re cruising down the highway, I’d finished my third and penultimate year at Bay University hours before, leaving Froan city behind to spend time at home.

Dad is driving, having made the four hour drive to come and pick me up. We’re singing our hearts out to our favourite road trip song. Neither of us has a particularly good voice but it's a tradition of sorts. Each time we make this journey we put it on as soon as we pass the city signs.

It’s dark out but still stifling hot as the summer has kicked in full force. My dad prefers the air that blasts through the open windows to the AC so our voices are carried out with the whipping wind.

Despite my best efforts of taming it into a ponytail my red hair whips around my head like fire.

It’s not late but the road is quiet. We’d decided on dinner in the city to allow the traffic to die down.

Not that the road out to the west of the Island is ever very busy but the work traffic has gone for the day and we’re able to cruise along without any hindrance.

As we clear the mountain pass out of Froan Bay and are on a straight section of road, Dad turns to me, asking if there’s anything I wish to do over the summer, and for my upcoming twenty second birthday.

We’re chatting through various plans for a while when suddenly something catches both our attention through the windscreen. Time slows.

A figure is standing in the road, a black silhouette against the headlights of the car.

Dad brakes but it's not enough, we’re going to hit the person.

My vision blurs but I feel all of it, the swerving, the impact, the car rolling, the spike of dread filled adrenaline as I’m thrown about.

I try to steady myself by pushing my arms against the roof.

Nausea hits in a tidal wave as we finally stop.

I smell blood. There’s wetness on my face and on my leg, is that the source? My stomach retches. My eyes are still screwed shut as my brain won't stop ringing around my skull. Fuck this hurts.

Then there’s a sharp stabbing at my wrist and a scream explodes from my throat.

I wake up for the second time tonight and decide enough’s enough.

I won't be sleeping anymore. I get my breathing back under control again, turn on the lamp beside my bed and pick up a novel from the floor. I start to read, escaping into a different world so I don’t have to think about the memory, come nightmare, that is the night I lost my father.

As soon as dawn breaks I get up, put on work out gear and head to the gym to go through my physio routine.