crossed my arms and inched back. “You’re a jerk.”
He shrugged. “So I’ve heard.”
Even though I had mastered the art of glaring thanks to being around him, Dex looked totally amused and unaffected.
I quickly had to remind myself that I didn’t care.
“All right, well I’m going to go sleep,” I told him, getting up.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he replied. “Knowing us, they’d probably be demonic.”
“Right,” I muttered and left Dex lying back on his bed, eyes on the ancient television, still and blasé except for the tapping of his fingers on the quilt. The tattoo remained a mystery. And, in a way, so did Dex.
Even though it was quite early, the drive had taken a toll on me too and after I had taken a hot shower from a woefully low-pressure faucet, I crawled right into bed. The foreign, scratchy bedsheets and unfamiliar darkness of the room didn’t even keep me up for more than a few minutes. This was a rarity, considering that ever since the possession, I hadn’t been sleeping well. And who could blame me, really. When you’ve had actual monsters under your bed, nighttime becomes that much scarier.
My sleep was dreamless. At least, I didn’t remember anything when I was awakened by an anguished cry from Dex’s room followed by a deafening thud that shook my walls and caused a painting on the wall to fall to the ground.
“Dex!” I yelled, bolting straight out of bed. I stumbled over the blanket and made my way blindly to the door between our rooms. I quickly unlocked my door and thankfully found his unlocked.
I shoved it open and burst into his room.
It couldn’t have been an eerier scene.
The room was dark except for a light coming from the bathroom vanity area. The light didn’t do much to illuminate the room, however, because a bed, the same bed I had been sitting on earlier, was flipped entirely over and propped up against the bathroom door.
Dex was standing in front of it, back to me, an unmoving silhouette in a weary pose.
“Dex,” I said cautiously, my heart in my throat. I walked carefully across the room, avoiding the bedding and pillows that had been scattered around.
I stopped right to the side of him. He was wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and shaking lightly, from his loose fingers that hung down at his sides, all the way up to the flashing whites of his eyes. His gaze never left the flipped over mattress. He was staring at it like it was going to attack him any minute.
“Hey,” I whispered. He didn’t acknowledge me until I reached for him, touching his elbow. Then he jumped and spun around to face me, sucking in a giant rush of air. If he looked dazed before, now he was awake and aware.
And more afraid.
He shook harder, swallowing harder, as his eyes tried desperately to tell me something that his mouth couldn’t.
It scared the living shit out of me, causing my skin to prickle down my back.
I quickly grabbed him and brought him close. The action was instinctive. I wrapped my arms around him and brought his head down into my neck. He was almost hyperventilating.
I had no idea what to do or what to say. I had no idea what happened. Had he flipped the bed over and thrown it against the vanity? The mirror behind it was cracked and glass had scattered on the ground. Why? Was he angry? How could he even flip the bed by himself? Why was he convulsing in my arms like a punished dog, making whimpering noises at my throat?
“It’s going to be OK,” I told him, holding him tighter. “Do you need help? A doctor?”
He shook his head violently and I squeezed him again.
“That’s OK,” I reassured him. “Let’s go to my room. Come on.”
I led him out of the room, keeping my grip steady on him, and ushered him through the doors. I closed his and as I did so, his head snapped up.
In the darkness of my room I could only see the glinting whites of his eyes.
“Lock it,” he said in an ominous voice.
I nodded and quickly threw the lock over. I
He shrugged. “So I’ve heard.”
Even though I had mastered the art of glaring thanks to being around him, Dex looked totally amused and unaffected.
I quickly had to remind myself that I didn’t care.
“All right, well I’m going to go sleep,” I told him, getting up.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he replied. “Knowing us, they’d probably be demonic.”
“Right,” I muttered and left Dex lying back on his bed, eyes on the ancient television, still and blasé except for the tapping of his fingers on the quilt. The tattoo remained a mystery. And, in a way, so did Dex.
Even though it was quite early, the drive had taken a toll on me too and after I had taken a hot shower from a woefully low-pressure faucet, I crawled right into bed. The foreign, scratchy bedsheets and unfamiliar darkness of the room didn’t even keep me up for more than a few minutes. This was a rarity, considering that ever since the possession, I hadn’t been sleeping well. And who could blame me, really. When you’ve had actual monsters under your bed, nighttime becomes that much scarier.
My sleep was dreamless. At least, I didn’t remember anything when I was awakened by an anguished cry from Dex’s room followed by a deafening thud that shook my walls and caused a painting on the wall to fall to the ground.
“Dex!” I yelled, bolting straight out of bed. I stumbled over the blanket and made my way blindly to the door between our rooms. I quickly unlocked my door and thankfully found his unlocked.
I shoved it open and burst into his room.
It couldn’t have been an eerier scene.
The room was dark except for a light coming from the bathroom vanity area. The light didn’t do much to illuminate the room, however, because a bed, the same bed I had been sitting on earlier, was flipped entirely over and propped up against the bathroom door.
Dex was standing in front of it, back to me, an unmoving silhouette in a weary pose.
“Dex,” I said cautiously, my heart in my throat. I walked carefully across the room, avoiding the bedding and pillows that had been scattered around.
I stopped right to the side of him. He was wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and shaking lightly, from his loose fingers that hung down at his sides, all the way up to the flashing whites of his eyes. His gaze never left the flipped over mattress. He was staring at it like it was going to attack him any minute.
“Hey,” I whispered. He didn’t acknowledge me until I reached for him, touching his elbow. Then he jumped and spun around to face me, sucking in a giant rush of air. If he looked dazed before, now he was awake and aware.
And more afraid.
He shook harder, swallowing harder, as his eyes tried desperately to tell me something that his mouth couldn’t.
It scared the living shit out of me, causing my skin to prickle down my back.
I quickly grabbed him and brought him close. The action was instinctive. I wrapped my arms around him and brought his head down into my neck. He was almost hyperventilating.
I had no idea what to do or what to say. I had no idea what happened. Had he flipped the bed over and thrown it against the vanity? The mirror behind it was cracked and glass had scattered on the ground. Why? Was he angry? How could he even flip the bed by himself? Why was he convulsing in my arms like a punished dog, making whimpering noises at my throat?
“It’s going to be OK,” I told him, holding him tighter. “Do you need help? A doctor?”
He shook his head violently and I squeezed him again.
“That’s OK,” I reassured him. “Let’s go to my room. Come on.”
I led him out of the room, keeping my grip steady on him, and ushered him through the doors. I closed his and as I did so, his head snapped up.
In the darkness of my room I could only see the glinting whites of his eyes.
“Lock it,” he said in an ominous voice.
I nodded and quickly threw the lock over. I
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