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Blood. The never-ending smack of the bat. Aching arms, red-spattered fingers, her husband’s lifeless, broken body below her.
Until she blinks, and he’s the one standing over her, that too familiar cruel glare in his eyes as he brings the bat down—
Rose feels the scratch of her throat before she registers the sound of her own screaming. She fights the blankets, swatting their suffocating pressure off as she bolts upright, eyes frozen wide.
Another scream beside her. A man.
He stands up, his figure looming over her. He raises his arm.
Rose shrieks again, shoving him away with all the strength she can muster. He grunts, and she stumbles to her feet, fumbling with the lamp on the bedside table and switching it on—
Standing frozen on the opposite side of the bed, alarm clock raised in his hand, is Harvey. It’s just Harvey.
“Rose, what the hell is going on?” he yells, bleary eyed and dazed.
“I—” Rose’s words are swallowed by a shuddering gasp. No, no, no, hold it together.
“I thought there was an intruder,” Harvey says, looking at the alarm clock in his hand—his weapon—before setting it back down.
“I—I thought you were the intruder,” Rose chokes out as she collapses back onto the bed. Blood rushes in her ears as her heart pounds. Her hands shake, and she clings to the bed sheets to try to steady them. She tries to take a deep breath, but it comes out all ragged and quick and dangerously approaching a sob.
“Ah, shit, Rose, what happened?” Harvey sinks back onto the bed beside her.
Rose squeezes her eyes shut, but the blood is burned into the backs of her eyelids. Opening them again, a few tears spill out. “Nightmare,” she blubbers, biting her lip so hard she can nearly feel the skin tearing.
“Ah.” That’s all Harvey says, and Rose isn’t quite sure what she wants him to say, but it isn’t that.
This is why she’s been so nervous about him starting to spend the night more often. She knew this would happen eventually; the nightmares are inevitable. And now that he’s seen it, who knows how much longer he’ll put up with her.
After half a minute passes, Harvey clears his throat. Then he puts a hand on her shoulder.
Rose flinches away and hisses. She doesn’t mean to, it’s just instinct. Self-preservation.
“Woah,” Harvey says, withdrawing his hand. He’s never been great with affection, and now he’s even more out of his depth.
“Sorry,” Rose mutters, clenching her hands harder. Why can’t she just be normal? Things would be so much easier.
“ ’s alright…” Harvey says, but he sounds uncertain. He doesn’t try to touch her again.
The tears keep spilling over as Rose sits there, feeling useless and weak and a burden. It was so terrifying to open herself up to Harvey, to trust someone with her heart again, and now she’s gone and wrecked it with the ghosts she can’t get over. Harvey is still silent, no doubt questioning what to do about the problem that is her. How can she explain to him what the hell is wrong with her?
But maybe she won’t have to. When Rose finally finds the willpower to open her eyes again, Harvey is already gone. That hurts even more. She stares blankly ahead, mind battling the nightmare she’s just escaped and the new one she’s created, when the door creaks open. Her head jolts up with a start.
Harvey’s in the doorway, balancing half a dozen things in his arms. “It’s jus’ me,” he says softly, and Rose can’t help but stare in shock. He hasn’t left.
First, he sets a cup of tea on the table next to her. “Sometimes when I’m riled up, this helps settle my nerves,” he explains. “You like the chamomile one, right?”
She nods, unable to speak. Carefully, she leans toward the cup and sniffs. She’s too drained to lift the cup just yet, but the aroma is nice. She inhales again.
Next, Harvey unfolds a blanket—the soft, white one Rose always curls up with on the couch. “You’re always telling me how cozy this one is,” he says as he drapes it around her shoulders.
Rose sighs. It’s not suffocating like the blankets were earlier. This one is light as a cloud, billowing her up and away from the darkness haunting her. She finally untwists her fingers from the sheet and clutches the edge of the blanket, rubbing the soft fluff between her fingertips.
Harvey walks around the bed, sitting down on the opposite side with a grunt. Then he holds out one of his handkerchiefs. “If you want,” he says.
Rose takes it, wiping away the grossness beneath her eyes and nose. When she takes her next breath, it’s very slightly steadier. She keeps the handkerchief just in case.
Harvey doesn’t say anything, nor do anything else besides stay with her. His deep, rhythmic breathing is comforting, a reminder that he’s here and she’s safe.
As another tear rolls from her eyes, Rose lets herself collapse against Harvey’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
His arm winds around her, resting on her shoulder. It’s a bit stiff and the pressure is strangely light, but Rose softens into his touch. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Harvey asks.
Rose tenses, and he quickly adds, “You don’t have to. I just know some people like that, so,” he shrugs, “I thought I’d offer.”
She hums, hoping he’ll accept her silence. And he does, no questions asked. A moment later, he gives a gentle kiss to her temple. “You’re okay, Rose. You’ll be okay.”
Somehow, Rose’s eyes start to flutter shut. You’re okay, she repeats to herself. It isn’t entirely true, and probably never will be, but it feels closer than it has in years.