Holloway

It was Thursday, but it could have been any day to James Holloway, starting the same way it had countless times before, waking up with the foul aftertaste of the nightmare fresh in his mind, mixed in with trace amounts of his own blood from biting his tongue during the night. His body felt dead, heavy, and worn out. He struggled to even open his eyes. But he did, he had to, it was the only way to erase the images. And yet he saw them, obscured by the white of the ceiling, not fading quickly enough. A warm breath crossed the back of his neck and he rolled over slowly, dragging his arms across his body.

There was no one there, just the perfectly made-up half of his bed, untouched. He moved his hand under the blankets, felt the cold emptiness, wondered why he still woke up expecting someone to be there. She hadn't slept there since forever. And that was such a long time ago.

He moved his hand to his face, pressed a finger to one nostril and blew out, clearing some collection that had accumulated during the night. It was the air, he thought, trying to suffocate him. The signs were all there; stuffed up nose, some white sealant accumulating on his lips, holding them together. One night it would all come together just long enough to keep him from breathing and he would die while dreaming his nightmare, possibly termed to replay it for eternity. The thought made him shiver.