Page 13 of In Somnis

What the fuck?

I scan my surroundings again—no edges, no walls, no sense of space—and finally glance down at my hands for a reality check. Six fingers.

Right.

This is a dream…

… I’m dreaming.

The second I lock onto that fact, I breathe out, and the space shifts. A soft breeze stirs the void, and a wall forms behind me because I want it there. I lean against it, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other.

Better.

Where are the damn trees?

Did my subconscious finally get sick of recycling its favorite torture chamber?

Blondie is still crying in her little spotlight, shoulders shaking, apparently seconds from shattering.

Great. Is that my new curse? Strange crying women?

But still, this is delightfully different from the last hundred nights. No forest swallowing the light or branches clawing at my arms. No feeling of being funneled somewhere I don’t want to go. I don’t feel trapped or powerless.

Holding up my palm, I will a sour lollipop into existence. It pops into my hand instantly.

Holy shit. I laugh under my breath.

I’m not blocked anymore, for real?

“Damn,” I mutter. “Maybe my subconscious finally got over itself.”

I unwrap the yellow thing and stick it between my lips. The hit of sour is brutal, and my whole face twitches as a shudder runs down my spine.

“Fuck you, Miller,” I mutter around the candy, grin curling. “Fuck you and your deadline, I’m back bitches.”

The blonde stills her sobbing on the floor as if she somehow heard me.

This is weird, even by my standards. Not the kind I’m interested in right now, though. I need to get to work. So, I flick my focus toward her, pushing at the edges of the dream, willing her to dissolve, fade, vanish—whatever. My control slams into resistance instead, like static biting back.

Oh?

I try again, harder, but she doesn’t budge.

“Well, shit,” I breathe out, the realization sliding into place.

This isn’t my dream.

No wonder the cold edge of fear that usually coils in my gut is missing. But now that I pay attention, her fear practically hums in the air, vibrating under my skin in a way that makes everything feel too close, too loud, too raw.

Fuck me sideways. I never managed to share a dream without intending to do it. Hell, I haven’t even tried in months. It takes enough effort to keep my own head from spiraling every night without voluntarily stepping into someone else’s. But here I am, and there she is, and this whole setup is so obviously not my dream it’s almost insulting. If it were mine, there’d be teeth somewhere, blood, or something interesting.

My gaze scans the black void and fog again.

I’d never conjure up anything this boring.

I think back to earlier, to me lying in bed and trying to ease myself into a lucid state with slow breaths and the intention to dream, the usual routine, except the universe apparently hates me, because right when I was finally slipping under, some lunatic—cough, Blondie, cough—decided pounding on my door at eleven at night was a great idea. By the time I slammed the door shut and made it back to bed, I was wired, irritated, wide-awake, and, for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, unable to shake the image of her kneeling in the hallway, staring at me as though I’d personally stomped on her last good nerve.

Which, for the record, I didn’t.