The Last Alibi

51

Jason

Monday, July 8

A low growl, then thick sweaty gums, fangs dripping with saliva, black nose with nostrils flaring in anticipation; my movements are slow but steady, unsure of what will provoke it, and then its eyes come to life and it SPRINGS-

“Shit,” I whisper to myself. I catch my breath, wait for my pulse to even out, wipe sweat off my face. My dreams have graduated from serial killers and dead women and insects feasting on my skin to animals, mean and snarling, ready to pounce.

I roll over and Alexa is staring at me, wide awake, propped up on one elbow.

I blink twice and say, “What. . are you doing?”

“You had a bad dream,” she whispers. “Are you in pain? I think the pain causes the nightmares.”

“I. . yeah, maybe. Why are you up?”

“I heard you waking up,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she just woke up. She looks like she’s been watching me sleep.

She opens her hand. “I got you a pill. There’s water on the nightstand.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. You don’t have to. . do that. I mean, I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. I’m just trying to help.”

I take the pill and chew it up. These dreams suck. It would be nice if I could sleep through the night just once, instead of lurching forward in terror every two hours.

“You’re low on pills,” she says. “You know that, right?”

Of course I know that. I monitor those things more closely than anything in my life. “I’ve got it covered,” I say.

I put my head back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I should be feeling better soon.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” she says. “With that girl. I get jealous. I guess that’s obvious.”

My breathing evens out. It’s kicking in now, the euphoria, the giddiness. I look over at her, my eyes having adjusted to the darkness, her features becoming clearer now. Is she. . Has she. .

“Are you. . crying?” I ask.

“No, no. No, no. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m happy when we’re together. Are you?”

“I’m. . happy,” I murmur.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m happy. Go back to sleep.” I reach over and touch her arm.

“I don’t like it when you talk to pretty girls,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want to share you. Is that so bad?”

“No. . no. .”

And then my thoughts turn into swirls, sideways and inside out, and then I’m falling, falling, falling onto something feathery and warm.