It’s just a dream. It’s not real. A nightmare. Yes, it’s only a nightmare. You can survive a nightmare. In a few hours you’ll open your eyes, roll over in bed, and wake up to the light of a new morning. You’ll see. You’ll be fine.
So don’t scream.
The sheets tighten around you. You feel smothered. They’re suffocating you and you want to gasp out for air. Your lungs beg for oxygen and you want to comply, to fill them. Your hands clench around the blankets, clumps in your hands, but you still can’t breathe. Not without screaming.
Please don’t scream.
His hands on you, burning holes through your skin. You’d expect to see scars in the morning, if it weren’t a dream. He moves. His hand slides down your chest, past your waist. Your eyes are closed, but you squeeze them tighter. Push the nightmare away. Push him away.
Push away the scream.
His weight. It wants to crush you. Your bones feel fragile under him, as if one wrong move could shatter them, shatter you. You almost hope it happens. One fracture, one rib, that’s all it would take. If it’s the right one and you’re lucky. You wish, but you don’t dare to hope.
Don’t dare to scream.
Your head moves, but you didn’t move it. Your eyes flash open from the shock. His hand on your cheek. His eyes staring straight into yours. Dark. Bottomless. The kind of eyes the pull you in and tear your apart. Your mouth opens in fear and his hand moves, covers your lips. Smothers you. His rough voice in your ear.
“Don’t scream.”
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