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When Norah begins to wake, it’s with arms wrapped around her. Still half-trapped in her dream, it’s only the feelings of manic fear and pungent horror that carry her forward. None of her thoughts base themselves in logic like they should; she’s driven by pure, unadulterated emotion. The kind that tells her to go, to run, to get away from whatever was threatening to drag her to her death.
She screams. It drowns out the voice in her ear and scrapes painfully against her throat. She can’t process the words being softly spoken, only grasping the vague sound of it. It sounds like the backing melody to a song she’d only heard once, and had yet to learn the lyrics to.
Deep in her subconscious, she recognizes that she isn’t where she thought she was. There’s a part of her that knows this isn’t right. She knew she was safe, but the idea’s buried under miles of thick, putrid fear that’s threatening to drown her.
She can’t articulate any words. The train of thought in her head is a mess of concepts and emotions and unfinished sentences that she can’t turn into verbalized language. The only things that she can get out of her mouth are frantic sounds of panic and desperation. All her thrashing and fighting isn’t getting her free. She knew nobody was coming to save her.
Her nails dig into cloth, then skin. Liquid blooms on the surface, soaking into her fingers and coating her nails. Finally, the arms let her go. Her legs are shaking beneath her, but she forces herself to move. She pushes herself forward, no destination except anywhere but here in her mind. She doesn’t make it far before her foot catches on something, and she goes toppling into the dirt below.
Her eyes open, a reaction to see the ground so she can catch herself, and she abruptly realizes that where she is doesn’t make any sense. Cold mud sinks into her clothes and clings to her skin. The air is chilly, far colder than the forest should be at this time of year. This knowledge leads to her taking stock of herself.
Her whole body aches. Her breathing is painfully shallow, like her ribs can’t fit her lungs in them. There wasn’t enough air in the space around her, what little she manages to suck in with short, sharp breaths doesn’t do much more than keep her conscious.
Feet rush around to her front, then a woman drops to her knees.
It’s her mom, dressed in her sleep clothes with a familiar soft purple robe layered overtop. Her sleeves are pushed halfway up her arms; under the light of the moon and the dim streetlights, Norah can see glistening trails of red lining her forearms. They’re on the front lawn of her house, the sun nowhere to be seen, and the forest barely a distant backdrop.
She doesn’t understand.
The woman who looks like her mom’s mouth is moving, like she’s speaking, but Norah can’t make out any of the words. She isn’t sure it is her mom. It seems identical at first glance, but her eyes won’t focus through the blur of tears, so what if she’s just missing something? Her eyes darts over the woman’s frame, her ears straining around the rushing of blood and the high-pitched ringing, desperately trying to find evidence for one answer or the other.
And then the woman moves closer, and another raw, dragging scream breaks from Norah’s throat. She scrambles back in the dirt, elbow slamming into the rock she tripped on and forearm scraping along the sidewalk she pulls herself onto. Away. Get away. Run.
Words hit her like a tidal wave, overwhelming and all too loud. “Norah!” her mom yells, voice cracking, “Norah, calm down!” She sounds frantic, and more worried than Norah has ever heard. Something about her voice hits deep, popping the bubble of irrational fear. Brutal sobs split from her throat, and her taut muscles finally go slack. Her entire body begins to shake, this uncontrollable feeling that encompasses every inch of her thin frame, and makes her feel like she’s sitting in the midst of an earthquake.
Her eyes dart back to her moms arms– and it is her mom. It has to be. She’s awake. She’s safe. This is real– and trail up the scratch marks she left there in her panic. Apologies start falling from her mouth in distorted, incomprehensible babbles. Tears and hiccups obscure her ability to see and speak. She doesn’t know how much her mom is understanding her, but she’s desperate to get her point across.
“Oh, gosh, honey,” her mom frets, hands hovering, keeping a good couple feet between them. She looks like she wants to get closer, but she’s hesitating. “No. No, it’s okay, don’t apologize– oh, gosh, Norah,” she repeats. She finally began shuffling forward, reaching for the teenager on the ground.
Norah can’t bite down the spike of terror, the way her body reacts on instinct to get away and protect herself. She flinches, and goes stiff when it doesn’t stop her mother from wrapping her up tight, pressing her close.
It’s both nice and terrifying. She feels comforted and trapped all at once. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Oh my gosh.” Mom’s grip tightens. She presses a series of kisses to the crown of Norah’s head. “Breathe, honey, it’s alright. Everything’s alright, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” Norah gasps out. Again, and again, like it’s the only thing she knows how to say. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean– I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t wanna hurt you, mom, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I–”
“Calm down, calm down. You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart, it’s fine,” Mom soothes. Her hug is beginning to feel as heavy as Norah’s weighted blanket, not suffocating, but comforting. “Breathe. C’mon, take a breath. Everything’s alright.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, because she can’t stop the words from falling out of her quivering lips.
“I know, baby. It’s okay. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.”
When she’s finally breathing steadily enough to not be at risk of passing out or acute hypoxia, Mom’s arms shift, then lift, cradling her daughter in her arms like she’s still a little girl. She brings Norah inside, setting her down gently into the hard wood of their dining room chairs like she’s made of fragile china, breakable even at the lightest of taps.
She must dissociate or zone out, because the next thing she knows her father’s hand is on her shoulder and he’s handing her a bundle of clean pajamas, worry blatant on his face. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, honeybun,” he suggests, voice low and appropriate for the dimly lit room. Her mom was hovering in the hall, her own bundle of clothes held in her arms.
She doesn’t have it in her to shower. When she’s shuffled off to the downstairs bathroom, she strips off the stained fabric and wipes herself down with wet wipes, promising to herself that she’ll change her bedding and clean up for real in the morning.
Norah stares herself in the mirror, and asks herself where the girl she used to be went.
When she makes it back to the dining room, her dad has reheated meatloaf and is in the process of plating it up, and her mother has changed into a soft nightgown. Norah beelines for her, tucking herself into her mom’s lap. Comforting pressure wraps around her in the form of a hug.
She eats the meatloaf set in front of her quietly. They both try to get her to speak, to talk about what happened, but she can’t get herself to explain things. To explain the fact she didn’t even know what she’d been dreaming about. That she’d been sleepwalking ever since the hours she lost during the fight against the Shtriga. That this was just the first time they’d caught her.
She doesn’t get back to sleep that night, despite her parents carrying her to bed and tucking her in, promising that they’d be there if she needed them.