I jolted awake.
Heart in my throat.
Sweat soaking the sheets.
Breathing like I’d sprinted a mile.
The vase.
My vase.
The one on my nightstand—tall and blue, the cheap one I’d bought at a flea market—lay shattered on the hardwood.
Water pooling.
Petals scattered.
There was literally blood in my hands like I had actually stabbed him.
I woke up gasping—sheets soaked with sweat, heart trying to punch through my ribs.
The knife from the dream was still in my grip—phantom weight—until I realized it was just my own nails dug so deep into my palms that I’d broken skin.
Tiny half-moons of red welled up on both hands.
I fumbled for the lamp—click—yellow light flooded the room like an accusation.
Jug tipped over.
Water everywhere.
I stared at my hands—shaking—then at
