Wild

Nightmares suck.

Especially when they're so intense you don't wake up for, oh, twelve hours.

I disgust myself--I can't let my imagination get the better of me.

Still, the minute I get out of bed, I text half the people involved and Facebook whoever's online with a 'Are you okay?'

Because I have to know, like you would if you were me, that I'm not as much a monster as my subconscious says I am. For things that were my fault.

That there aren't *really* bitemarks on Kate Murley's neck, that Katie didn't *really* get the shit beat out of her, and that Finley isn't *really* dead. Not to mention my own body--that there aren't *really* hundreds of recent wounds to defend those three--but that's the easiest to check, isn't it?

Not to mention the obvious:
When it comes to the people I love, I'm the last of my concern.



Always.