I wake up in a cold sweat, throwing my arms about like a crazy person trying to bat away a hornet. I don’t recommend that, by the way: if there’s a hornet, just fucking run away as fast as possible. But there’s nothing there in the dark besides me and the blanket I’m now all tangled up in.

My phone reads 3:00 AM when I tap it to life. Augh. Great.

I flop back onto the bed with a groan and stare at the ceiling. I imagine little fern-like frosty patterns drawing themselves across the blank space, while also being really grateful I’m no longer dreaming. I hate that dream; I hate it so much.

I also really fucking hate that it decided to show back up nearly every night for the past...how long has it even been? Days? Weeks? I don’t know anymore. Time is a flat fucking circle or whatever the heck it is the philosophers say. Even getting whacked in the head wasn’t enough to give my dreams some variety, but at least now I don’t have to wear that stupid bandage around my head anymore.

There’s something like four more hours till dawn, right? I roll around. I stretch. I close my eyes. I try and and try and try to go back to sleep, but my body continually rejects me with one big nope! Should I make a cup of coffee? Is it worth it to forsake any chance of going back to sleep and accept that my unconscious mind is an asshole but I’m also too lazy to, like, go and do something productive like an early morning jog?

I check the weather; it’s sub-zero degrees right now. Why am I even surprised? I don’t mind the cold -- I actually much prefer it to summer -- but even I’m not crazy enough to try to go run out in a temperature like this. I roll myself up into my blanket like a burrito; I don’t even care that I can’t really move my arms.

Okay but now I’m hot. Dammit.

I unravel and force myself out of bed, padding over to my bedroom window. I draw the blinds and squint at how bright the moon is. It’s almost full, but the night sky is actually clear enough that it feels blinding compared to my dark room. A motorbike pulls up in front of the complex: it’s bright red paint shines like...well, like blood. The rider doesn’t take off his helmet; he only looks around and up at the building.

I resist the urge to duck down -- for fuck’s sake, self, this isn’t some thriller movie. The dude is probably just lost or something. At three in the morning. Of course, now that the thought is there, I can’t shake it: it feels like he’s looking at me. I shake out my shoulders and yawn, doing my best to not look at the strange early-morning rider. My eyes drift to the crumpled up piece of paper on the floor; I’d thrown it there almost immediately after reading the first few lines. I hadn’t needed to get beyond the, “We’re sorry to inform you that you have not been chosen for transfer to Korean National Sport University.”

Wasn’t exactly my favourite news to read returning from the hospital days ago, but what else should I have expected? I hadn’t performed all that well when I’d gone up to Seoul to try and make that potential transfer happen. Of course, Coach would probably say, “There’s always next semester or next year.” It doesn’t make me feel any better; disappointment still hurts, whether or not I try to temper my expectations. Were my parents still here, they’d probably tell me to pray or something. A scoff follows behind that though, pressing out from behind my teeth, only to be followed up with a cough. A stench like rotting meat rips up my nostrils and my gag reflex reacts with violent heaves. The skin around my mouth stings when I slap my hand over it, ensuring that, if there’s gonna be an accident, I won’t have to clean the floors.

Is it a gas leak?

The motorbike revs loudly, and then the sound begins to drift further away, and I look back up from the floor. Whoever they were out there, they’re gone. Warily, I throw open the window and half-throw my head out to breathe in the night air. Whatever that rancid smell is, it’s not from out here, and each gulp of frigid winter is like a cleansing dunk to my respiratory system. My face tightens in the breeze, but I don’t even care. I pull out my phone and, with shaking fingers, start looking up what the heck a gas leak smells like -- nothing, apparently, or rotten eggs -- and then look for what beyond spoiled meat would smell like, well, spoiled meat.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

I scroll again and find an article from an American news outlet. I have to run it through translation, but it lets me know that phantom smells are also a potential side-effect of schizophrenia and head trauma. Well, I swallow. That solves that mystery. When the doctor had warned me about “potential aftershocks” of pain and tinnitus, he hadn’t mentioned anything about potential phantosmia, but I bet if I looked through all the paperwork I got sent home with, I’d find it listed there somewhere.

This had to have been because of that nightmare: my stress levels were already up with the adrenaline and everything else, which puts me in a heightened state of emotion, which then leads to a higher probability of an “episode.” I take another wary breath; the smell isn’t as strong anymore, but my exhale is shakier than I’d like.

My eyes scan the small, dark room, “If anyone wants to talk before I pill-pop you into silence...speak now or forever hold your peace.”

I hope for silence, and am instead met with a low chuckle, followed by whispers in the darkest shadows of the room. They speak so fast that I can’t really make out most of what they’re saying, though I think I catch snippets of words like “lion” and “lamb,” but honestly I can’t be totally sure my brain isn’t just trying to conjure words out of utter nonsense. That terrible ringing comes back into my ears and the room vanishes as my eyes scrunch shut; my ears are absolutely freezing to the touch when my palms press down upon that lower part of the outer ear, like the pressure will alleviate the sharp pain.

A chill runs down my back, and the noise stops as abruptly as it began. When my eyes open, and my hands come down from my head, there’s nothing but silence. My entire body shakes, and I remember I’d left the window open. No wonder I’m shivering; I shut it, pressing a few extra times to make sure the seal is tight. The last thing I need right now would be to catch a cold thanks to being woken up for the umpteenth time by a recurring dream, plus the added bonus of some fun head trauma-induced side effects.

I might as well make a cup of coffee. There’s no way I’m going to fall back asleep by this point.

The kitchen floor is cold under my bare feet, and I take a moment to check my fridge; I don’t even have any meat, so I don’t know what I was expecting. Sure enough, there’s nothing rotting in there, although that milk’s expiration date is definitely coming up pretty soon. I pull out a mug from the stand next to the sink and click the kettle on; it doesn’t take long before the water is boiling. I pour it into the instant mix and stir, watching the vortex of brown liquid swirl around in a hypnotic spiral. My thoughts wander around everywhere and nowhere, which isn’t anything beyond the usual, if I’m being honest with myself. Which I usually try to be.

I sip the coffee...and nearly choke because it’s so bitter and I forgot to sweeten it. Oh my God, this is death; I’ve found the way I will actually die one day. When the hell did I buy this? I wonder, before remembering that I didn’t actually buy it. Coach had given it to me because he got a free box or something, and I’ve never known a university student who turned down free food or drink, myself included.

Did I thank him for this? I should thank him for this.

I snap a pic of the now-sweetened drink, and send a quick KaTalk message thanking Coach for the free box of instant liquid fuel. I also throw in an apology in case I accidentally wake him up with my messages. A yawn breaks through the barrier of my mouth, and I nearly choke on the coffee I’d been in the middle of sipping. I thump against my chest as my phone chirps.

A message from Coach glows across the screen: You should go back to sleep -- you’re on mandatory rest for a reason.

Either I woke him up or he was already awake, which...weirdly enough, I suppose that’s not all that out of character for Coach. I’ve definitely noticed more than once that his emails are often time-stamped around this time of night. Regardless, of course he only messages me back to nag me to go back to sleep. I snort; had I texted my parents with something similar, I can easily bet they’d say the same thing.

Another chirp. Another message.

And you don’t need to thank me. I’m always here for you, whatever and whenever you need.