Irisa

The winter moon hangs low in the sky, casting the ground in an eerie white shadow. Snow as hard as ice covers the road, hiding the tarmac beneath. But it only provides for a stark background against the red of the blood. Drip, drip, drip.

When a nearby streetlight flickers, I see the silhouettes of dozens of people standing by the side of the road, surrounding me.

A strong stench lingers in the air: iron and copper mixed with the smell of burning fuel. I look around myself to find the wreckage of what once used to be a car, used to be live people. Now broken and burning and bleeding. Beneath me is a pool of blood, growing ever larger by the second, warmer, stickier, and deeper.

No, no, no. Please, no.

There's a flash of light so bright that for a moment everything goes white, and in that moment I hear the whisper of a scream. I'm not sure if it's mine or not.

The strangers around me begin to move, taking small creeping steps toward me. The light finally illuminates their faces. Their eyes are a milky white. Their hands are outstretched, fingers bony and crooked, skin ashy as if covered in soot and thick smoke. Their mouths part open, wider than should be humanly possible, and they scream. Only that the sound shrilling past their peeled back lips isn't human at all. It's the blaring of horns, a hundred over, one upon another, of metal crashing against metal in an endless horrifying crescendo.

I try to put my hands over my ears so as to block the ear-splitting sound only to find out that I can't move my hands. I try to speak and no words leave my throat. The red puddle grows deeper under me, the ashy ghouls close in on me, and I can't move and I can't scream.

Suddenly I'm pulled under and for a moment my vision goes dark, all sound falls away, and I'm thankful for the relief, but then just as quick I'm choking on blood. Engulfed in a swamp of thick red with hands pulling me deeper and deeper and deeper-

I come to with a scream lodged in my throat.

Instantly my hands fly to my face to make sure that it's clean, that I'm only soaked in sweat and nothing else, nothing worse. I look around to gather my senses and realise that I'm alone in my bedroom.

I hold my head in my hands, pushing the heels of my palms into my eyes, breathing loud and ragged. Of course I'm in my room. Where else would I be?

Five minutes pass and I can still feel my heart hammering against my ribcage, my nerve-endings on fire. With shaking hands I throw off the purple duvet and climb out of bed. The balls of my feet touch the cold wooden floor and a shiver runs through me. I look around and all of a sudden I feel claustrophobic, as if the walls are closing in on me and that there are white-eyed demons standing in the shadows, waiting for me to let my guard down. I rush over to the window and throw the shutters open to let in a gust of fresh September air. As the breeze dries the sweat on my face and cools my flushed cheeks, I close my eyes for a beat and breathe in deeply, gulping down air in an attempt to clear my head.

"It's okay," I say out-loud. "Just another nightmare. That's it."

I pull over a chair from beside the desk and grab a random pen off the worktop. I run my hand through my hair, fingers falling past the jaggedly cut ends which now cling to the back of my wet neck. Shaking my head, I breathe in deeply and rub my nose once before sitting down on the chair and tucking my legs up underneath me. I already know that it's going to be a long night.

Looking out at the night sky I can see that it's vastly different from the one from that night, from my nightmare, and yet, I still feel the lingering hysteria and panic trying to creep its way up my throat.

"Get it together," I mumble to myself, repeatedly. "Calm down. It's okay just-just calm down."

It has been over a year since the accident but it's still not easy. When will this start being easy?

In my nightmare induced state, for a second I consider going to Asteria's room across the hall to check up on her. Make sure she's still there. Hug her growing body snug against mine, tell her I love her and remind myself of the fact that yes, god damnit, I'm not alone. It'll be okay.

Deciding against waking her up, I sit back down on the chair and hold on to that thought as tight as I can.

It'll be okay.

I sigh and look around my room, painfully empty of any personal touches save for the mess of pens and paints on the desk. It's not that the room doesn't look lived in, because I have been spending most of my time here for the better part of this last year. But it doesn't look like it belongs to someone. My eyes skip past the file lying on the side-table, right beside my bag, and I'm reminded of what tomorrow has in store for me.

The yellows and blues society. A friend.

Dr. Zia told me his name's Henry. I wonder, now, who he is. Have I seen him before? Met him before? Does he already have an impression of me? A lonely girl fraying at the edges with a cheap rip-off of a smile.

It's not that the concept of friendship is new to me, of course not. I used to have friends, but that was before the accident. I was a much different person back then. A happier person. Innocent and aloof. But then my world burnt down to ashes around me and now... now I don't know what I am.

But ever since Dr. Zia gave me his file, told me his name, told me that I'm to meet him the next day, I can't help but hope.

Henry.

As my heartbeat slows down, the soft wind cooling my skin, a small sigh escapes my lips. I remember reading somewhere once that the trauma of an accident fades over time and that the memories shift into the subconscious. That the wounds scab over. Now, with the moonlight shining over me, I think about my recurring nightmares, the scars on my wrists, the cover-up wreath, the drawings covering up the rest of me, and I really hope that that's true.

For tonight though, without a friend but with the seed of hope for the first time in a long time, I pull the lid off the pen in my hand and start tracing against my wrist. I scribble my name right above the wreath tattoo — a small cursive IRISA — and then I draw a line, then a petal and then a flower. And so on it goes, late into the night, until the nightmare has been washed away, safely hidden under the pictures covering my arms.

The next morning as I stand outside Dr. Zia's office, I find that my heart is equal parts on my sleeve and in my throat. A whole ocean of emotions surrounds me and I feel like I'll drown in my own thoughts.

When I hear voices coming from the other side of the door, indicating that he's already there, that just a few inches of wood separate me from the person who could possibly lead me to shore, my breath catches. For a moment I consider turning around and walking away, with none the wiser, but then I think of Asteria.

That seed of hope shines in the ocean of doubt for just one moment, and that moment is enough to propel me forward.

With a determined shake of my head, I roll my shoulders back, pat down my hair and rub my nose. I reach out a hand to twist the knob just as the door swings open from the other side.

"Oh." Dr. Zia startles for a beat but then a wide smile replaces her shock. "Irisa!"

"Morning," I say, smiling a little, picking at my cuticles.

"Good morning to you, too." She steps aside, beckoning me in with a wave of her hand, nails painted matte blue. My eyes scan the room, the beige walls with the window looking out into the school garden and the one single swing, the shelf, filled with various books, their spines a whole pallet of different colours, the table pushed to the far side, adorned with a white potted cactus, a black loveseat in the centre of the room and two sofa chairs. And then, finally, to the figure sitting on one of the sofas.

Arms resting on the sides of the chair, he sits leaned back with his legs crossed. Black, wavy hair. Thick brows and thin lips. His eyes are locked on me, deep green and unreadable.

I wonder what he's thinking.

"This is Henry," says Dr. Zia, gesturing toward him as he stands up.

"Henry," she continues, subtly nudging me forward as she closes the door behind me with a firm click. "This is Irisa."

I take in a deep breath and take one step forward.

"Hi."

Henry tilts his head to the side a little and stares at me. Green eyes drinking me in with such intensity that I have to avert my gaze, wrap my arms around myself. "Hey," he says.

It feels like he's studying me. Flipping open my books and reading through the pages of my life.

I clear my throat in an attempt to make him stop. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

I nod, wait for him to say something more. He doesn't. He tucks his hands inside his front jean pockets and blinks softly.

"Well then," Dr. Zia says loudly, clapping her hands once. "I guess I'll leave you guys to it."

Like a shock has ripped through him, Henry jolts and swivels his head to look at Dr. Zia and then at me. "What?" he asks. For a moment there I think I see panic cross his features, but then it's gone and he's calm and contained again.

I shake my head to myself and close my eyes. The seed of hope drowns with a mumbled whimper.

"I actually have an extra class," I say, opening my eyes to look at Dr. Zia. I flash her an apologetic smile and hike up my bag over my shoulder, my knuckle tightening painfully over the strap. Turning around, I spare Henry one last glance. He's frowning, looking confused. He doesn't know what he's doing here. I don't either, not anymore.

"Bye," I say to whoever's concerned and walk out the door.

Out in the hallway my hand finally falls away from the bag's strap, palm opening to reveal five crescent-shaped indents dug into the soft skin there. A tear falls from my eye, runs down my cheek, past the soft quiver of my lips and down my chin. I duck my head so that bangs cover my face.

I don't bother wiping away the tears that follow.