Haunted (Day 112)

Dim light from over the bar gave some definition to the darkness. Eddie raised his hand. It was still balled up into a tight fist. The nightmare was over. Or was it? He waited as he so often did lately, trapped in his bed, listening intently. Tonight was the same. He didn’t hear anything that sounded like sirens or explosions. Those would almost be more welcome that this outer silence that reminded him of floating dead in space.

Alone, he was safe in a secret penthouse. Hiding was about movement as often as it was about stillness—changing classes, status, direction or at least their appearance but he wasn’t hiding was he?

Sitting upright, he peeled sweat soaked sheets off his back. His heart was beating too fast. His hand was still a trembling, white-knuckled fist. He willed the fingers loosen, the fist to unclench but his body didn’t obey.

Christ, I need a drink. Something to chase away these demons.

As he reached for the bottle of Springbank that he kept on his nightstand, his fingers stretched out.

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