Son of a bitch.
I feel like I've just run a marathon. I can barely stand to stretch my legs and arms; my muscles are tight as a nun’s sphincter.
My limbs slide over the memory foam mattress, slipping over the sweat-soaked sheets. When I try to get up, the bedding isn't willing to let me go. I'm drenched in a veil of sweat, the world beneath the blankets humid and damp. I wipe some droplets from my forehead, probably doing more harm than good, as I think back to the dream.
I can remember a house, a little girl, and--
I bolt out of bed. I only have seconds to reach the bathroom. I nearly kick the door down as I hurry inside, the sudden motion only hastening the sickness. With barely...
Please subscribe to keep reading.