Final Truth

Chapter 77: Restless

Julia's point of view:

It's midnight.

The moon is high in the sky, casting rays of light through the windows and forging curious shadows that stretch along the walls.

The crickets chirp away a symphony.

The world may as well be moving in slow motion.

And I'm drawing patterns on the ceiling.

Unable to sleep, no one to talk to and no real reason to even try blocking out the world, my eyes dart back and forth across the roof of my room. I try to make shapes and patterns out of nothing to occupy my mind from the fact that it's too hot, the bed too soft, the atmosphere too peaceful...

But it's all for naught.

Chasing sleep has never been a strength of mine, no matter that I wish for it now more than anything.

I want to stop replaying the events of this morning; I don't want to keep seeing flashes of my final test, don't want to relive the sound of the knife plunging into Henley's chest, don't want to remember the tone of Peter's voice before I took his memories away.

If I could shut it all off, I would.

The shapes on the ceiling have begun to blur into figures of nonsense, making me groan in response as I grab a pillow and shove my face into it.

Maybe this will help, I think to myself as I roll over and reposition the pillow over my ears.

And for a moment, it does.

The haunted voices from today pause, if only for a minute, while my shallow breathing fills their absence. No sound remains save for the soft crinkling of fabric around my head.

I exhale in relief before I realize I can't breathe very well like this.

And then I'm remembering being trapped in the shrinking room from the first part of the test, remember drowning by the hands of an unforeseen creature, remember being dragged so far down to the depths that no one could hear my screams, see me struggle, help me, save me...

I'm hyperventilating before I even realize it as tears start to prick in the corners of my eyes.

I yank the pillow off of my head and sling it across the room, thrashing out from under the sheets as well in the process. I hear something break in the distance, but I pay it little mind as I sit on the edge of the bed trying to collect myself.

My fingers thread themselves into my hair while I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the bad memories back to the corners of my mind before I resign myself to defeat.

"I can't do this," I mutter before getting up and leaving my room.

Can't sleep in a bed because it's too soft, can't use a pillow because it's too suffocating, can't stay in here because it's too warm, can't think because the memories are too much, can't do this, can't do that.

More power than anyone could ever dream of and yet I can't do anything to help myself.

I go downstairs, each step punctuated with a slight echo in the empty house. Once I make it there, I make my way to the thermostat on the wall, turning the temperature to the lowest setting it can possibly go.

I'm not used to this warmth, not used to blankets and softness. I'm used to the prison, used to its frigidness and the hard ground I slept on for the better part of a year.

As the temperature around me quickly begins to cool, I walk myself to the middle of the living room and lay down on the floor, the feeling uncomfortable but familiar.

And I suppose that's what I'm searching for in my haze of desperation: familiarity.

I shut my eyes as the cold air envelopes me and my body adjusts to the floor, hating the fact that I have to do this in an effort to calm down.

Look at yourself, taunts a voice from within. So far gone that you have to replicate that prison within your own home.

"Stop it," I beg.

Can't sleep, can't think, can't breathe without something reminding you of your bad memories. Get over it, the voice continues.

"I'm trying," I say between my teeth, my fingers twining into my hair and beginning to pull.

You have a house, a bed, a home to call your own again. You have nothing to be upset over. Grow up. Get off the floor and go back upstairs.

"I can't."

Yes, you can. But you won't, just like you won't make me leave your mind, won't stop me from berating you for acting like a child.

Groaning in frustration, I open my eyes and look at my hand, look at the tattoos on my right palm, scanning them in the hopes that I can use something to calm me down, any kind of power to make the voice stop.

My gaze stops on one particular symbol, and I pray that this will work on me.

Using the power of dreams to induce sleep? That's a crutch, Julia. Shut me up on your own. Go to sleep on your own.

The voice begins to protest even more as white mist begins to seep from my palm, but I can't bring myself to hear anymore. I have to escape, have to sleep, and I won't let my mind keep me from doing so anymore.

I bring my hand to my forehead as the mist envelopes me, and for one blissful moment, the voice stops.

All the voices stop.

Every bad memory retreats from the forefront of my thoughts.

Sighing in complete and utter relief, my eyes slide shut as I finally drift off.