Wait Until Dawn by Bailey Bradford (book club suggestions .txt) 📕

trying to make Rich think he had a chance at…well, not a normal life, he’d never be normal again, not with the scars and the memories he had, his and the others’. Maybe he should end it all now, roll over and find the gun, press it to his skin and blow his goddamned brains out.

Rich cried out as the chill spread from bones to tissues, his muscles spasming, cramping and burning. He panted as he curled in on himself even more, his body refusing to help him end his life.

I can’t do this! Nothing, I have nothing, I am nothing! And I’m so fuckin’ cold. Coppery sweet wetness trickled over his tongue and down his throat. Rich gagged as he tasted blood. He must have bitten his tongue since his teeth were chattering like the old wind-up teeth he’d had as a kid. Rich concentrated on not puking or doing himself more damage, which was funny, considering he’d just tried to put a bullet in his brain. Tipping his chin toward the floor, Rich spat, not giving a shit about the mess he was making. He’d been prepared to make an even bigger one, after all.

But this one I’ll have to clean up. And who would have cleaned up the blood and brain tissue if he’d killed himself? Not his father, but someone would have. Rich cringed at the thought. How selfish was he to not have considered that someone would see his dead body, his head half blown off, and have to live with that image the rest of their life? How could he ever do that to someone else? He wasn’t any better than the invader who tormented him with sickening images.

But he could be. Something inside him seemed to hum, the sound causing the fine bones in his ears to vibrate. Warmth spread to chase away the horrible chill. The shivering should have stopped, but it hadn’t. Too much had happened, and the taste of blood still lingered in Rich’s mouth. And no matter how fucked up he was, he hadn’t imagined what had happened. Two, there were two presences toying with him, although the new one didn’t seem malevolent. Yet. He didn’t try to delude himself into thinking it’d remain that way, not after everything else in his life had gone to shit.

Rich ignored his trembling muscles and forced himself to roll. He pushed up onto his knees and looked for the gun. When he didn’t find it, he stood on shaky legs and stumbled to the light switch, fumbling to flick it on. Bright light flooded the room, and Rich squinted as starbursts danced in front of his eyes.

Blinking furiously until his vision cleared, he kept himself upright by slumping against the wall. When he could finally see, his stomach dipped and he slid down the wall, landing on his ass hard enough to knock his breath from his lungs. Rich shook his head slowly and looked around the room again. He crawled across the floor and peered under his bed. Nothing but months of dust was under it. Sitting back on his heels, he looked in the nightstand drawer and his heart slammed hard against his ribs. His ammo was gone, both boxes.

“What the fuck?” Rich mumbled as he started trembling again. Just like the gun, it seemed to have vanished into thin air. “This can’t be happening!” Although, why not? If he could be haunted, or whatever the hell was going on, why couldn’t his weapon and bullets disappear? Maybe nothing in this world was real. Maybe he’d blink and the room would be gone, blink again, he’d lose his home, then his land, then layer by layer the world would cease to exist, until finally he was left in that vast empty blackness he’d wanted to remain in.

Except nothing changed when he closed his eyes for several minutes then reopened them. The gun was still gone, as was the ammo, but everything else remained. Anger surged through him. Rich tipped his head back and screamed, “What the fuck do you want from me? You don’t want me to die, but you don’t want me to live either? This is no fucking life!” He didn’t know who he was yelling at—fate, destiny, a god he didn’t believe in, the forces of chaos that seemed to love to target him—it didn’t matter. He could shout until his vocal cords ripped and it wouldn’t change anything other than his ability to speak.

Exhausted and defeated by his own thoughts, Rich crawled onto the bed. His own negativity made him sick, but what was he supposed to do? Be grateful to be alive when he was an ugly, scarred man who had things trying to control his mind? How could he see anything positive about any of that?

“Fuck it.” His eyelids refused to stay open. It’d been so long since he’d truly slept, and his mind was playing tricks on him, enticing his body with the promise of rest. Rich didn’t believe it would happen, but he still closed his eyes, scoffing internally at the kernel of hope that he might sleep. It was the last thought he had before he slipped into the first peaceful dream he’d had in a year.

* * * *

“Aw, c’mon!” Rich slammed the cabinet shut hard enough to rattle the hinges. He dropped to his knees and jerked open the kitchen drawer where he’d kept a back-up bottle of Jack and a plastic bag with a handful of pain pills. “Goddamnit!” His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly make his fingers pluck at the tools and odds and ends he’d accumulated over the three years he’d lived in his house. No Jack. No pills.

“This isn’t funny!” Rich slammed the drawer shut with the palm of his hand. He needed something now to take the edge off…off everything! His head ached terribly—the pain pills would have helped with that. Even aspirin might have dulled it some, but