Dreamcatcher

Two weeks. She could survive two weeks.

By the end of the next day, Emma wasn’t so sure of that.

“Keep moving.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will. Or you’re going to curl up and die.”

Emma would have snarled, if she knew how to do it. “I hate you.”

“Good. Hatred is powerful. Hate me enough to kick me out. But you’d better be strong enough to do it first.”

They were out on the patio, Matthew standing in front of her like a carved statue of Italian marble dressed down in blue jeans and a dark red T-shirt that fit like it had been tailored to fit. His feet were bare, and Emma focused on his toes; they were almost too perfect, each nail a pearl-white curve against paler skin. Everyone in Southern California spent hours in the sun, and yet his skin was still so pale…

“Again. Keep moving.”

Emma lifted the weights and shuffled around the patio. Each weight was only three pounds, but after ten minutes it felt like a ton. They had been doing this for an hour. Her arms were sore, her heart was racing, and all she wanted to do was lie down and cry.

“You need muscle to keep your body going, Emma. Muscle and fuel, sunlight and sleep, everything in balance.”

“I hate you,” she said again.

I will consume you.

The voice ripped through her, even as a cloud passed over the sun. The hollow pit returned in her gut, inching upward into her heart. She dropped the weights, and sat down, hard, on the patio. The stones were warm under her butt, almost too warm, but she couldn’t move.

“Emma.”

“Leave me alone.”

Thankfully, he did.

“God, please,” she whispered. “Make it stop.” The exhaustion she could deal with. The bullying caretaker she could outlast. The sleepless nights and shuddering muscles, she would work around. But that voice in her head, the cold fingers of something digging in her soul, spooning out everything inside…she couldn’t stand that. She couldn’t survive that.

The cloud passed, and the sun warmed her skin again. A hand touched her shoulder, gently enough that she didn’t jump.