Edging toward the deep end
Anteros was slipping in and out of consciousness; a part of consciousness questioned how it was possible to be this dead tired after rest? His mind was full of self condemnation. He reaches instinctively for someone, but no one was there. Dead space. Empty air. No one was there. Then his nostrils whiffed a trace of the scent of Pall Malls lingering, not his cigarette of choice. Was this a dream or a memory? Was Fate really here? It had to be a dream, there weren’t two of him and he’d never used Einstein in that context in his life. He felt a tight sensation, like there were squeezing hands about his neck, and they were choking the life out of him. He grabbed at his throat, sitting up in Peitho’s bed, among her white satin sheets and coughed. His groggy, mattered eyes darted around. He wiped his itchy eyes and could see that no one was there in this room with him, not Fate, not Peitho, he was alone. Where did everyone go? He almost began to panic clutching onto his pillow and inhaling and exhaling deeply, his mind going places that terrified him. He had to find a clock, he needed something real, he needed to separate dream from reality fast, and the room felt as if it was closing in. What time was it? His eyes searched Peitho’s boudoir for a clock and found one, a jeweled wrist watch on Tempest’s nightstand. It was late in the afternoon, Tempest must have still been peeved at him, or maybe she just allowed him to sleep in without interruption. The former was probably still the case. He pulled the blankets up around him, huddling much like a frightened child who was afraid of being home alone, or was afraid of monsters in the closet or under the bed. Whispering to himself, “This will pass…This will pass…”