𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝟏𝟖+] ✔

54

Despite being trapped within a dome, a dystopian society with limited resources, I wake up in a white room full of computers and technology. My nostrils instantly burn with a strong smell of bleach. There are steady beeps coming from my left, the sound of a pump wafting on my right with a nurse and doctor discussing something I can't make out.

I strain to look, but all I can do is internally wince and close my eyes again, causing a pressured pain at the back of my head. Dizziness hits like continuous waves crashing against the glass of the dome during a storm, the beeping machine dinging loudly as my heart races.

My mind hasn't reconnected to my voice yet, so I can't tell whoever is near me that I'm awake, that I'm okay. I can't groan or whimper. I can't register who's touching my face, or whether their skin is hot or cold. I can't concentrate on who is trying to calm me with words and strokes against my cheek.

It's like I'm trapped in a dream within a dream within a goddamn nightmare, and I'm standing at the foot of my own bed, yelling at myself to wake up. To open my eyes and see that everyone I care about is safe and waiting for me.

That this was all a dream, and no one died.

I want to wake up and hear that Robbie is alive and not a broken body somewhere in the dome. That Frank is in the kitchen, pretending not to watch every single move Belinda makes. That my best friend is rolling her eyes at me and calling me dramatic, and not potentially dead or suffering the loss of her unborn child.

In my warped mind, Ainsley is holding her bump, her other hand on Gareth's shoulder as he gets to his feet and kisses her with pure adoration. In my warped mind, Dad is speaking to the town, and they applaud him. In my warped mind, I'm lying in the snow, watching the stars and talking about marriage at the age of eighteen with my dead ex-boyfriend. In my warped mind, my feet are buried in sand as water ripples against my ankles, Eric standing beside me, telling me that we made it as Orla splashes around and giggles.

In my warped mind, I hear screams. I feel heat from fireballs falling from the sky. I smell burning flesh. I see death, glaring at me and waiting, tapping its fingers on a table impatiently. Because it's near. Death will take us all at one point, no matter what. And I have killed and lost and loved. I deserve the end.

And as my brain slows down and my thoughts stop inducing me into an uncontrollable panic, a needle digs into my arm, and a voice echoes that I just need to relax.

The voice is deep and comforting, and it sets every nerve in my body on fire, reminding me that I am alive. That Mark did not kill me. He didn't win. I didn't drown. I didn't melt my brain in the neurock. I didn't die while Eric drove us towards the dome nearly three years ago as the sky lit up in embers and tore Scotland apart.

I didn't take my own life, even though the urge to while trapped with that monster had driven me to calculating just how to do it.

A violin plays a haunting tune that pulls me into a calm slumber, with some of Robbie's last words repeating around the darkness.

You need to hold on.

Two weeks.

Fill those photo books.

So beautiful.

His voice tells me that it's all over, a press of warm lips to my temple that don't belong to him, but they are more. They are everything. All I ever need and want and have.

I'm not sure if I'm crying in real life or if my subspace has just become a pit of despair and joy. If the faintest feeling of a tear dripping down my cheek is actually happening.

Is it my hopeful imagination that has me thinking someone mutters to me that I'm okay? That I'm safe?

Or the worried voice whispering repeatedly, "I love you. I love you. I'll never stop loving you."