MARRY ME FOR ThREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX DAYS

The blood-soaked body collapsed into my arms, soaking my body crimson. Her bloodshot eyes looked into mine with terror as she gasped out two desperate words: “Run, Jenna! Run!” But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. It was as if I'd gone paralyzed, unable to will my legs into submission - her body slumped against me, snapping me back to consciousness. "M-Mom..," I rasped, finally found my voice, as I clutched my mother's bloody body, hands trembling, realizing she'd been stabbed multiple times, her stomach spurting blood. "Mama! Mama!!" I yelled desperately. The masked figure, the killer, began to creep closer, blood dripped non-stopped from the tip of the knife as it glinted under the dim orange colored light from the only lamp in the living room. When it'd gotten close enough, it took off the mask and my stomach dropped in disbelieve. It was no He. It was a She. Rachel. My best friend! "You killed your mother, Jenna," she said eeriely, still taking that short sharp lazy steps toward me. "You killed, them both." But the twisted grin and lost look on her face was a far cry from Rachel. At least the one I thought I knew. With the blade raised high, she lunged straight for my chest. “No! Rachel, no!” I screamed — —and jolted upright in bed the gutteral sound still leaving my throat, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving as though I'd sprinted a marathon, and my heart still hammering, perhaps pumping more blood than I'd ever need. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. My alarm clock wailed. [7:00 a.m.] Relief washed over me in tidal waves when I realized it was just a nightmare, and maybe, mingled with a little fear. I'd had a dream of that night. Again. The same reoccurring nightmare over the years. It's needless to say, but I will - it felt exhausting. The alarm clock kept on with that infuriating beep, needling at my last nerve. “Urrrgh!” I groaned, annoyed, I slapped it with just enough force to send it into the afterlife. "Shut the f**k up already!" As soon as I'd leaned back to bed the dream still lingering at the back of my mind, the curtains ripped open and a flood of blinding sunlight stabbed me in the face. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!” “Christ!” I hissed, burying my head under the blanket. Joanna. My flatmate. And yes, you can call her a Human foghorn. “Do you have to do that every morning?” I croaked, slightly irritated. "Yes," she said sweetly in that sing-song voice, with all the compassion of a drill sergeant. "It builds character." I peeked at her through one squinted eye. "No. You're building me ulcers, Jo." She smirked. "Better than building you bad habits. "You'd stay in bed till noon if I let you." "That's called self-care," I shot back, muffled under the blanket. "It's called laziness, babe." She plodded onto the edge of my bed, grinning like the villain she definitely was. "But don't worry, I'd taken it upon myself, to drag you out every morning, into the land of the living. You can thank me later." I groaned louder. "Oh, dear Jo, I'll thank you. Probably with your murder confession soon." She gasped dramatically, placing a palm on her chest. "On a Monday morning? That's... Savage." I rolled my eyes and yanked the blanket higher. A moment later, I heard her retreat with those lazy, slipper-dragging steps. Then her speaker roared to life, blasting The Weeknd—far too loud. “Joanna!” I bellowed. “Turn that the hell down! Be nice for once!” She peeked her head back in, her grin pure mischief. “Nah, Aurora. Nice doesn’t exist on a Monday morning. Always remember that.” I groaned into my pillow. She did had a point. Nobody loves Mondays. And for me? I despised them the most, with a most sacred dedication. ***** **** ***** **** By the time I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen, Joanna was already perched on the counter like some smug little gargoyle, sipping coffee from her favorite chipped mug—the one that read Not Today, Satan. “You look like death warmed over,” she said cheerfully, legs swinging as if she were a child auditioning for a cereal commercial. “Thanks,” I muttered, fumbling with the kettle. “That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed this morning,” I added sarcastically. “Anytime, Aurora.” She grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Seriously though, the bad dreams again?” I froze, spoon hovering over the sugar jar. “…Same one.” Joanna tilted her head, eyes narrowing just a little. For a second, I thought she was going to talk me into telling her what it was about -At least she tried to once, but I had refused, and she hadn't asked a thing ever since. But then she smirked. “Well, you scream loud enough to wake the dead, so at least you’re consistent and most importantly," she added as she sipped her coffee again, "A-Live.” I shot her a glare. She just raised her mug slightly in the air as defense. As if to say: 'Okay, girl, Okay... I'll leave it at that, don't eat me raw, please.' “Coffee first,” I muttered. “Then we can psychoanalyze me later.” “Fine. But don’t take too long,” she said, hopping off the counter with a mischievous grin. "The therapist hasn't gotten a client in almost a year now." In her way, Joanna was simply reminding me of her suggestion to see the therapist for what she called 'my chains of awfully consistent nightmares.' I gave a light chuckle. "I don't need it." She tilted her head a little as if to protest. But, to my relief, she backed down. One thing I respect about Joanna was that she respected boundaries. “Guess what?" she asked with childlike excitement. "What?" I played along. "I made pancakes!” she shrieked. I blinked. “You? Jo? Cooking?” “Don’t look so shocked.” She flipped one onto a plate with the skill of someone who’d clearly practiced several times before getting it right. “See? Golden brown perfection. I promise you, Gordon Ramsay would weep.” I eyed the pancake suspiciously, it looked half-cooked. “Ramsay would weep, yes—but most probably for different reasons.” Joanna gasped dramatically again, clutching her chest. “Your lack of faith wounds me, Aurora.” I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Just a little. The first genuine sound to crack through the heaviness I felt this morning. Still, as I sat down and stared at the steaming pancake, my mind and eyes betrayed me. The coffee I was stirring suddenly turned red - blood red. Then everywhere was bloodstained. I saw my mother’s lifeless eyes bored into mine. Rachel’s twisted smile, her cold gaze. I could hear a strange voice whispering my name: "Jenna....you killed your mother. You killed them all." My laughter faded as quickly as it had come. My breathing hitched, my hands trembled so much that I dropped the spoon and it clattered nosily on the counter. 'No, I didn't. I didn't kill her. I didn't anybody. Stop it..p-please!' "Aurora," a familiar voice called out. I gripped the counter, hands still shaking. "Aurora!" the voice snapped this time, grabbing my hand. That, brought me back to present. I took a hurried sip at my coffee. It was hot. It burned my tongue nonetheless I swallowed it down. Hard. "That's hot. Easy, girl," Joanna said rubbing my back as she slid into the chair opposite me, watching me more carefully now. “Hey,” she said softly again, dropping the sarcasm for once. “It’s just a dream, okay?” I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just a dream.” But we both knew I didn’t believe that. Because it did happened. It was never just a dream. Joanna clapped her hands loudly as she stood up and grabbed her bag. "I've got to go make a living, girl," she said brows rised high. "You're sure you'll be fine?" I gave her a tight smile nodding. "Yes." "Good," she said grinning, now at the door. "And don't go late to that interview. He hates lateness. So, if you're gonna make the billion dollar bills in Miami, you've got to be the earliest bird to the grain store."