except she was still throwing up, still exhausted, for far longer than she should have been–
He pushed the thoughts out of his head but they returned and he had to push them away again.
He must have eventually drifted off, but the only way he really knew he was asleep was when the nightmare came.
Not the tree. The nightmare. With the wind roaring and the ground shaking
and the hands holding tight but still somehow slipping away,
with Conor using all his strength but it still not being enough,
with the grip losing itself, with the falling, with the screaming– “NO!”
Conor shouted, the terror following him into waking,
gripping his chest so hard it felt as if he couldn’t breathe, his throat choking, his eyes filling with water.
“No,” he said again, more quietly. The house was silent and dark.
He listened for a moment, but nothing stirred, no sound from his mum or his grandma.
He squinted through the darkness to the clock on the DVD player. 12.07. Of course it was.
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