A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)
By: Meli Raine
My mouth is filled with my grey dress. I am naked, the whole dress being crammed down my gagging throat by the feathered wing of the vulture. It’s eyes are filled with a murderous glee, as if it is human and intelligent, as if it savors what comes next.
My breasts tingle with the cold fear of being defiled by unseen fingers, my core spasming with horror as I’m invaded, over and over, penetrated and helpless, the pain too much, too much, until I can’t take it but the scrabbling creatures in my brain won’t stop moving, can’t escape, can’t flee, and I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—
I wake up covered in sweat, my hands above my head, sitting up, my fingernails clawing my throat. The harsh rasp of my breath feels like I’m drowning, unable to get enough air, my lungs filled with the abuse in my dream, a kind of liquid poured into me that I can never expel.
Coughing, I feel the moan rise up from my core, as if it needs to speak, as if I can find it a voice.
This is one of the dreams that has plagued me for four years.
I thought coming home would make it stop.
A light turns on in the hallway. I grab my pillow and cover my face, crawling under the covers and resting on my side, away from the door. Eyes wide, heart twitching like I’m being defibrillated, I force myself to breathe evenly. Fighting instinct, I make it happen.
I have no choice.
I’ve had no choices for four years.
Someone is on the other side of my door. Shadows along the small crack at the base of the threshold tell me I’m right. The door creaks softly, like someone is pressing their hands against it. Are they shoving their ear up to the wood to listen for me?
I have to give them nothing.
Did I scream? Cry out? Gasp so loudly they heard me? I can control my behaviors when I am conscious, but the subconscious and the unconscious...ah, they are finicky mistresses. So hard to control.
Three faces flash before my open eyes, memories frozen in time. John, Stellan and Blaine.
Funny how they look just like the vulture in my dream.
Those eyes.
The person on the other side of my door knocks softly. Tentative, they’re exploring whether I’m awake or not. I hold my breath.
Go away, I think. Just go away.
To my surprise, they do. The shadows and the shuffling in the hallway tell me so.
I spend the next three hours until dawn staring at my ceiling fan, willing it to move.
I do not close my eyes.
Chapter 9
Home.
I’m home. I can smell it. At some point, I must have dozed off, because I wake up with drool in the corner of my mouth and that hazy feeling you get when you’re not quite sure whether you’re asleep or awake.
That scent? It’s the smell of carbs.
Carbs and cinnamon. My two favorite food groups.
Something in the room is ringing. The sound is electronic, and it takes me a while to recall the sound.
It’s a mobile phone.
I sit up and search the room, my eyes running across the surface of my dresser, nightstands, desk, and coming up empty.
Then I realize it has a hollow sound.
Three, four, five times it rings, and as I stand and search, I finally discover it in the left, top drawer of my desk.
I open the drawer. It is empty other than the phone, which is brand new.
I haven’t had my own phone in four years.
A stripe glows at the bottom of the screen. I tap it, then remember. You swipe it. I do, and a man’s voice speaks from the phone.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” It’s Daddy.
“Hi. What’s this phone?”
“Yours. You need one. That’s how the world works, sweetie. Your generation has smartphones to keep you on track. I have Anya.”
His attempt at casual humor makes me smile. I laugh because it’s expected of me, but a part of my chuckle is genuine. Something in my belly relaxes. A layer of tension releases.
“One day Anya is going to retire and you won’t know what to do with yourself, Daddy. You’ll just pause in place, like a robot without its energy source, and freeze.”
“She has to wait until after my two terms as President before she can retire.”
I laugh again.
“It’s in her contract,” he adds. This is an old joke. Anya’s younger than Daddy and is about as likely to retire as Daddy is to give up on politics. Both will never happen. This is safe territory for conversation.
“Are you home?” I ask, making polite conversation. I already know the answer.
“Back in Washington.” If I had a dollar for every time he said that, I’d have...well, enough to buy a nice computer.
Or, as I cradle it in my hand, a very nice smartphone.
“Lindsay, today is your day to decompress. Catch up on life. Learn how to use your smartphone, go to the spa, find your old friends...” The last little bit dies on his tongue. I know why, because I overheard what he and Drew said last night. But he doesn’t know I know, so I listen to his changing voice as he tries to cover for his own inner turmoil.