You can't wake from a nightmare when the nightmare wakes with you.
My alarm explodes at 6:45 a.m.
I groan and slap it once. Twice. It keeps shrieking, louder now, like it's proud of itself.
I hit it again. Nothing.
"Oh, for—"
I grab the thing and whack it across the room. It hits the wall, bounces off the dresser, and still somehow keeps beeping.
"Fine! You win, Satan's clock!"
Finally, silence. Probably out of fear.
I flop back onto my pillow and stare at the ceiling. Sleep never came after that nightmare, the voice, the burning, and the creature with the red eyes. I punch the pillow, mostly to feel like I'm still in control of something.
"Why can't I just be normal?" I mutter, sounding defeated. "No freak powers. No ghostly drama. Just one solid night of sleep without needing an exorcism afterward."
The ceiling, as usual, offers no moral support.
I stretch with a groan, yawning, and the blanket slides down my body.
Cold air hits my skin. Everywhere.
I blink. Then freeze.
Look down.
I'm naked.
Not "half-undressed" naked.
Not "oops, where'd my shirt go?" naked.
Full. On. Naked.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I yank the blanket up around me like a life raft. "Did I seriously sleep-strip? What am I, possessed by the spirit of wardrobe malfunctions?"
I glance around. No T-shirt. No shorts. No clue. The room looks like a war zone of twisted sheets and bad decisions.
"Perfect," I groan. "This is my life now. Weird dreams, surprise nudity, and absolutely no dignity."
But as I pull the covers tighter, my mind drifts back to the night before.
The shower.
The vision.
The Kere.
I can still feel it, that burning touch, those red eyes staring into me. I've had visions before, but nothing like that. It was too vivid, too physical. The way my lungs seized, the pain that followed, the way the world went black… it all felt real.
And then the memory hits me.
Someone else was here with me.
I can almost see it now: a silhouetted figure stepping into the bathroom, lifting me up from the floor, and carrying me to bed. A blanket being drawn over me. A whisper:
"It will all be right, child."
I clutch the blanket tighter to my chest, my heart hammering.
Did that really happen? Or did I dream that, too?
My skin prickles with unease.
I pull the blanket away just enough to glance down at my arm, and that's when I see it.
A faint red mark, shaped like fingers, fading but still there. In the same place the Kere grabbed me.
The moment I touch it, a sting flares beneath the skin, hot and alive.
My pulse skips.
"That wasn't a dream," I whisper.
Dreams don't leave burns.
And they definitely don't tuck you in afterward.
Will?
The thought hits before I can stop it. But no—no, the voice I heard last night wasn't his; it belonged to a woman. It was soft yet commanding, almost melodic. It resembled the sound of a lullaby transformed into a warning.
It couldn't have been my mother. She would have panicked if she found me half-dead on the bathroom floor. Knowing her, she'd have called the paramedics, the fire department, and probably a priest for good measure.
I grab my pillow, drag it to my chest, and press my face into it. Then I let out a long, muffled scream loud enough to get it out of my system but not loud enough to send anyone bursting through my door thinking I'm being murdered.
When the scream dies out, I throw the pillow across the room. It slams into the wall and flops to the floor with a soft thud—a weak, pitiful victory.
I sit up, breathing hard, hair sticking to my face. My room feels smaller somehow, like the air's been squeezed out of it.
What the hell is happening to me?
I pull my knees to my chest and stare at the clock. 6:58 a.m. The red numbers glare at me, unblinking, like even time's tired of my drama.
My mind spins through the last week, all of it.
Will.
The forest.
The Kere.
The vision in the shower.
The burn on my arm still throbs faintly.
Every path I take in my mind loops back to him.
William Enyalius.
Just thinking his name makes my stomach twist. There's something about him that sticks, and not just the way he looks, but the way he feels. Like he's the gravity that keeps me grounded and the earthquake that could tear me apart.
He is the first individual that comes to mind, the sole person who might understand what is happening to me.
And that's the worst part because how do you call someone you're not sure even exists the way you remember them?
I replay everything he told me, every impossible claim.
Fates.
Gods.
Me being one of them.
I'm not a skeptic by nature. I believe in energy, balance, and karma—the kind of mystical stuff that fits into a Sunday meditation playlist. I'm a witch myself. But what Will was saying? That was a whole different brand of insane.
And yet…
I run my thumb over the fading red marks on my arm.
He might not be lying.
"Do I even want to believe him?" I whisper in the silence.
The clock flips to 7:00 a.m. The sound is faint, almost delicate, but it feels like a countdown.
I shut my eyes and take a few slow breaths, trying to steady the chaos in my head.
When did my life get so damn complicated?
Being a witch was already hard enough—spells, energy work, and the occasional full moon meltdown. I was just fine juggling that with college. But then Will shows up out of nowhere, drops a mythological bomb on me, and just… vomits destiny all over my life.
Now I'm apparently some kind of divine heir with a god for a father, the goddess Fate for a mother, and a set of cosmic powers no one bothered to warn me about. Great. Fantastic. Ten out of ten, zero stars.
And the worst part?
What if Shelby was right all along?
She used to make jokes that maybe I was the reincarnation of some ancient version of myself—a witch, a goddess, or whatever. I'd laugh it off. But now, with everything Will said echoing in my head, I can't help wondering if she wasn't joking at all. Could Shelby be in on whatever Will said to me?
What if the version of me he remembers isn't gone?
What if she's just… waking up?
I wonder if those old scrolls in the school library say anything about what Will was talking about. The ones I found that night in the restricted section included the prophecy scrolls and one about the Evermore Keeper.
If any of what he said is true, maybe there's something in those texts to prove it. Or, you know, disprove it. Preferably that.
I don't have much going on today anyway. Maybe I'll swing by the library and reread them to see if they still sound like fantasy fanfiction or if my life has officially turned into one.
And if Will's so convinced I'm some ancient goddess reborn, then fine; I'll prove him wrong. There should be some documentation available somewhere. A birth certificate. School records. Something boring and human that says Angela Meyler, 21, not divine.
Maybe I'll even swing by Town Hall and grab a copy just to wave in his face. "See, Will? Not a Fate. Just a woman with student debt and split ends."
With that empowering thought, I roll onto my side and sit up, groaning as I drag myself upright. My legs feel like lead; my brain, like scrambled eggs.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, snagging a towel on the way. My hair is plastered to my neck and shoulders, sticky from last night's cold sweat. It's gross. I'm gross. I need a shower, a gallon of caffeine, and about five years of uninterrupted therapy.
Crap.
Today's my birthday.
Twenty-one. The age that's supposed to feel like freedom, champagne, bad decisions, and the world opening up.
Instead, I just feel… worn out.
I had expected to wake up filled with excitement, perhaps even bursting with joy, and express my gratitude to the universe for allowing me to legally drown my problems in tequila. But after another sleepless night? I'm miserable.
And underneath the exhaustion is something else… fear.
That vision from last night still clings to me, vivid and cold. It wasn't like the others. This time I wasn't watching it happen; I was in it. I could feel the water, the heat, and the pain.
It was me.
That's a first. And honestly, I don't know whether that makes it better or worse.
I've been having these flashes for weeks now, each one stronger than the last, and it's starting to feel like I'm losing the line between memory and imagination.
Are they visions?
Memories?
Warnings?
I don't know anymore.
All I know is that it's my birthday, and I've never felt less like celebrating being alive.