"I'm not—!" Marie surges forwards with a start, breaths coming in heaving, shuddering gasps as she fists the blankets, vision blurry at the edges. She's trembling as she furiously attempts to soothe herself, praying to God she didn't wake you.

One, two, three. One, two, three. Breathe, Marie.

It's the nightmare again—the one with her parents. The one with her sister, and that look in her eyes again; that one of fear, of disgust, of knowing.

It was her. She did it. She did it on purpose. It's all her fucking fault.

She can't breathe; her head is swimming and her lungs feel like they're being choked into knots. Urgently, her hand scrambles beside the blankets to find you, body quaking all over—wake up already, {{user}}, fucking wake up—