Matt Tremain watched the gun barrel, waiting for the shot. Charles Claussen smirked, aiming the silver 9mm Luger. Matt watched Claussen’s finger slowly increase pressure on the trigger and braced himself for the blast.
Awake, Matt struggled to untangle sweat-soaked sheets. Another panic attack, the same nightmare. Charles Claussen with that weapon, he thought. Matt tried to hold on to details, but the images floated away as soon as he opened his eyes. The acrid taste of stale alcohol was a reminder of self-medicating, desperate to stop the recurring night-time terrors.
Matt stumbled to the bathroom to rinse the fuzz from his mouth. He was alarmed to see the water glass quivering in his hand.
Returning to his bed, Matt tried to rub away the hammering pain. It didn’t help. He tried to ignore the clock display as he drifted between awake and sleep. It’s no use, he thought.
Matt walked back to the bathroom. He didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. Murky bloodshot eyes looked back at him. Matt splashed his face with cold water. It didn’t help. Time to face the world. It’s the best I can do.
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