BEFORE THE TIDE
783 Words
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
March 17th, 2014.
The room was bathed in pale moonlight, shadows shifting restlessly across the walls. Clara’s chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, her body twisted in the sheets. Sweat clung to her temples. Muffled cries slipped past her lips as something gripped her mind tight and merciless.
In her dream, she stood on a battlefield soaked in blood. Screams ripped through the air, shrill and endless. Bodies lay scattered in the dirt, limbs twisted at wrong angles. Smoke coiled into the sky, thick with the copper sting of metal.
Her bare feet sank into dark water, tinted red. Cold. Heavy. It climbed fast. First her knees. Then her waist. Then her chest.
Too fast. Much too fast.
She clawed at the air, trying to shout, but no sound escaped her throat. The water surged higher. She threw her head back, gasping, only for her scream to vanish beneath the rising flood.
Her body jerked violently.
The battlefield was gone. Only darkness remained. Then a scream, sharp, broken, raw ripped out of her throat and into the night.
Mrs. White shot upright in bed, hand pressed to her chest.
“Darling, wake up,” she hissed, shaking her husband’s shoulder. “It’s Clara. Something’s wrong.”
Another scream split the air, louder this time, carrying down the hall like a knife through glass.
Mr. White was already moving. He threw off the covers, feet pounding the floor, his wife close behind.
They burst into Clara’s room.
She was thrashing in her sheets, her skin pale as wax, sweat pouring down her temples. Her lips moved fast, frantic, murmuring words that didn’t make sense.
“Clara!” Mrs. White dropped to her knees at the bedside, hands clutching her daughter’s shoulders. “Wake up, baby. It’s just a dream. Come back to me.”
Clara’s eyes flew open. Wild. Unfocused. Then they locked on her mother’s face. Tears spilled instantly, streaking her cheeks.
“Blood,” she choked, her voice ragged. “So much blood. I… I couldn’t breathe.”
Mrs. White pulled her in, rocking her gently, stroking her damp hair.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re safe now. It’s over. Just a dream.”
Clara clung to her desperately, trembling in waves that wouldn’t stop.
From the doorway, Mr. White stood rigid, his fists curling until his knuckles whitened. His jaw worked, tight and furious.
His daughter, once the bright little girl chasing butterflies in the yard, was now haunted, her sleep poisoned with terror.
Rage burned hot in his chest.
The Wintersons.
His eyes narrowed.
Haven’t they done enough already?
_______
The morning light crept softly into the Whites’ dining room, but the air felt heavy. Clara sat at the table, her eggs untouched, her fork trembling faintly in her hand. Her sisters were unusually quiet, stealing glances at her pale face before returning to their plates.
Mrs. White stirred her tea slowly, her gaze fixed on Clara. The way her daughter’s eyes stayed lowered, far away, made her chest ache. She leaned closer to her husband, her words barely above a whisper.
“It’s the water,” she murmured. “The island… being left there, it’s clawing at her fears again.”
Mr. White’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around his coffee mug. “The Wintersons,” he hissed, his voice rough with restrained fury. “That arrogant boy abandoned her at the dock like she was nothing. And now this.” His hand slammed against the table harder than he intended. Clara flinched.
“Darling,” Mrs. White warned gently, reaching for his wrist to steady him. Her tone was calm but edged with quiet urgency. “Not now. She doesn’t need anger. She needs us to help her heal.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
Mrs. White lowered her voice even further, as though speaking the thought aloud might shatter Clara completely. “Maybe… maybe it’s time we spoke to Dr. Reynold again. After what happened last night… the screaming, the nightmares… this isn’t just fear anymore. It’s haunting her.”
For a moment, only the tick of the kitchen clock filled the silence.
Mr. White’s jaw worked as though he wanted to protest, but the sight of Clara's shoulders hunched, fork unmoving, eyes locked on the tablecloth stilled him. Finally, he nodded once, curt but resolute.
Clara never looked up. The floral pattern beneath her blurred, swimming in her vision as her chest tightened. The word doctor hovered at the edge of her thoughts, cold and suffocating. She pressed her fork down hard into the eggs, as if pinning herself in place, fighting the urge to run from the table.
- Writer
