Chapter 36 Nightmare
Maria's POV
The darkness surrounded me, lulling me to sleep like a mother rocking her newborn. I dreamed fretfully, back to the night of the diner.
The man in the black hoodie.
A strong urge to protect.
Bang—like a clap of thunder.
Blood… so much blood… everywhere.
I woke up in a sheen of sweat, my sleep shirt soaked through. I had never been more grateful to be alone; I would never want anyone to see me like this.
I climbed out of bed, tore my clothes off, and threw them into the basket by the bathroom door. I turned on the shower and stepped in, letting the warm—almost scalding—water try to wash away the nightmares that had haunted me the night before.
When the water began to cool, I climbed out and wrapped myself in a towel. The towels here were enormous—almost like beach towels—and they covered me easily, cocooning me in their softness.
I walked back into the adjoining bedroom and exhaled, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the soap someone had left behind. I pulled the towel tighter around me and sank onto the edge of the bed, letting my mind drift.
Outside, the faint hum of the city reminded me I was far from the diner, far from the blood and panic. But the memory clung stubbornly, like a shadow refusing to leave. I closed my eyes, willing it to fade, promising myself I would not let the fear win—not today.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the exhaustion and the terror, I felt it: the urge to protect. Still strong. Still unbroken.
I stayed on the edge of the bed for a few moments longer, letting the towel dry the worst of the moisture from my skin. My hands trembled slightly, and I pressed them into my lap, trying to steady myself. The images from the diner had not left me—they were carved into my mind, sharp and unyielding—but the soft morning light spilling through the thin curtains made them feel distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
I walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain just enough to peek outside. The yard was empty, dew still clinging to the grass, the trees standing tall and silent. No traffic, no hum of the city—just the quiet of the countryside. The stillness was almost deafening, and I realized how loud my own heartbeat sounded in my ears.
I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and pressed my palms against the cool glass. The world outside seemed harmless, untouched by the terror of last night. A small part of me wanted to believe I was safe. But the memory of the man in the black hoodie lingered stubbornly, his eyes sharp and calculating, haunting me more than the gunshot ever could.
I sank to the floor by the bed, letting the towel fall to my knees, and wrapped my arms around myself as if I could somehow hold together the pieces of me that had been shattered. My thoughts raced, trying to piece together the fragments of fear, anger, and confusion.
I have to be ready. I have to be careful.
Even as I told myself this, the ache of exhaustion pulled at me, heavier than any fear. Sleep had fled me before, but maybe—just maybe—if I stayed still long enough, if I let my body sink into this quiet safety, I could steal a few moments of rest.
But rest was fleeting. Somewhere deep inside, that urgent need to protect, to act, refused to be silenced. My fingers clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms. Whoever had come for me, whoever had drawn blood that night… I wouldn’t be caught unprepared again. Not ever.
I closed my eyes and listened to the morning: the distant call of a bird, the rustle of leaves in a soft breeze, the faint creak of the wooden floor beneath the house settling. Outside, life went on quietly, indifferent. Inside, I was slowly learning to survive—one shaky breath at a time.