Impostress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!”

  Slow down, Caitlyn. Breathe deep. It was only a dream. Don’t fall apart!

  Desperately she gulped air. Remembered all the techniques she’d learned in therapy, forced herself to rein in her galloping emotions. “Never again,” she vowed. Whatever it was she’d drunk last night, she would never take as much as one sip again ... but what was it? She blinked. Tried to remember. Nothing came but the brittle, jagged pieces of the nightmare.

  “Jesus,” she whispered. Once again, she’d lost track of time, hours of her life missing. She didn’t even remember how she’d gotten home. An inkling that something was very, very wrong slithered through her conscious. She couldn’t name it, but the sensation was strong enough to cause her skin to prickle.

  You had a bad dream. That’s all. Get over it. She drew in another long breath. She was in her own bed. Home. Safe.

  With a mother of a migraine. Her head throbbed. Her throat ached and she smelled smoke in her hair from sitting too many hours in the bar. Oh, God, she’d really gone overboard last night. She winced against the first rays of the new morning as dawn crept through the open window. A jasmine-scented breeze carried with it the sounds of fresh rainwater gurgling in the gutters. The French doors were slightly ajar, and the lacy curtains lifted and fluttered, shadowed in places, darkened and stained.

  Why was the door open? Had she opened it last night before crawling into bed because of the heat? Images of the nightmare stabbed into her conscious, mingling with blurred memories from the night. She’d had a few drinks at a bar ... somewhere on the waterfront. Or was that part of the disjointed dream, too? She remembered the noise of the band, and she could still smell the cloud of old cigarette smoke that had hung over the crowd. She’d drunk a little too much—well, a lot too much—but she’d managed to get home. Somehow. But that part was blank.

  The headache no amount of Excedrin would be able to quell throbbed behind one eye and she felt groggy, disconnected, as she glanced at the clock. Red digital numbers flashed. Twelve o’clock. Midnight? Noon? No way. Birds were just beginning to warble. It had to be early. Five or six. A god-awful time to wake up. The power must’ve been interrupted. It was the dream that had awoken her, the ragged, disjointed scenes screaming through her brain.

  Her mouth tasted bad. Dry as cotton. Her stomach felt empty, as if she’d lost its contents sometime during the night. Swiping a hand over her sweaty forehead, she brushed back a clump of damp curls and felt something crusty. Her fingers were dirty or ... or ... What the devil was that smell? For a second she thought she might have thrown up, but the odor was metallic rather than sour and ... and ... oh, God ... She held her hand in front of her face and saw the stains that had run down her arm. Dark purple. Thick and crusty, having seeped from the slices upon the wrists.

  What?

  Blinking hard, she pushed herself up in the bed, higher against the pillows. Panic swelled. She fumbled for the light switch. Click. In a blinding burst of light she saw the blood.

  Pooled on the sheets.

  Scraped across the headboard.

  Wiped on the curtains.

  Smeared on the walls.

  Everywhere.

  “No ... oh, God, no!” Caitlyn bolted from the bed, her legs tangled in her nightgown, and she fell face-first on the apricot-colored carpet now stained red. “Jesus!” Dear God, what was this? She scuttled like a crab over the crusty carpet. It looked as if someone or something had been slaughtered in this fifteen-by-twelve-foot room. And you slept through it!

  Her heart froze as she saw a handprint on the door casing, another wiped on the panels. She had to fight the nausea that climbed up her throat. Scared out of her wits, she scrambled to the bathroom.

  Whose blood is this?

  Yours. Look at you!

  Her gaze landed on the mirror over the sink. Red stains smudged her face where her hands had swiped her skin, and her nostrils were caked with blood. Her hair was matted and wild. Had she just had a horrid nosebleed, like the ones she’d had as a child, and somehow managed to sleep through it? No ... that wouldn’t explain the nicks on her wrists. Nor the blood smeared everywhere in the room.

  She remembered the open door. Had someone done this to her? Fear knotted her stomach. Oh, God ... but why? Who? She was beginning to hyper-ventilate but forced herself to calm down. The blood wasn’t all hers. It couldn’t be. She was alive. Anyone who had lost this much would certainly be dead. No one could have survived that massacre.

  She leaned against the sink and tried to think. She did feel woozy, light-headed, her migraine eating away at her brain.

  Oh, God, what if the person who did this is still in the house?

  No, that didn’t make sense. If someone had tried to kill her, he would have finished the job. The blood in her hair, on the walls, in the shower had dried. Time had gone by. So he was either scared off or had taken off..

  Or you did it and left the door open.

  No ... But she couldn’t remember, didn’t know.

  If the blood isn’t yours, whose is it?

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know ...”