The scream that tore through the darkness was different from the ones that had come before. It was not the raw, desperate cry of a man trapped in visions of a past that was not his own. It was something else, something deeper, more personal, more terrifying.
It was the sound of a man watching the woman he loved die.
I was on my feet before I was fully awake, my heart pounding, my hands reaching for a weapon that was not there. The chair by his door had become my second home, the wooden frame worn smooth by my nightly vigils. I had been sleeping there for weeks, ever since the nightmares began, ever since I realized that he needed me close.
The scream came again, and I ran.
