I have nightmares about drowning.

About dying the same brutal way Josh did, with waterlogged lungs, scrambling and gasping for a breath he would never take. Sometimes I'm alone; sometimes he's there with me. Sometimes he tries to help, wading into the water and offering anchors in the form of flailing arms and strangled screams, none of which I can ever get a real hold on.

Other times, like tonight, he doesn't do anything at all.

Just stands at the edge of the lake and watches, motionless, his eyes glazed over like he can't even see me. Then my head dips below the surface and my sharp inhale draws murky water into my lungs and everything goes black.

I awake with a gasp: a short one at first, because I'm expecting to inhale two lungs full of water, but then another much slower when all that floods in is cool, air-conditioned air. I'm not in the lake at all. I'm in my dorm room, twisted in two-week-old bedsheets and covered in sweat that has seeped through the mattress. The clock on my bedside table tells me it's a few minutes past three a.m..

The other half of the room is empty. Even though I've been elated about exactly that since arriving back on campus, right now, this nightmare has me so rattled that it no longer feels like a blessing at all.

I throw back the covers and slide my feet into my slippers. Throwing on a hoodie over my pajama top and shorts, I reach for the door handle and head down the hall.

The communal bathroom is empty. The soundproofing isn't as good here and it's closer to the stairwell than my bedroom, so I can hear faint shrieking laughter from what sounds like drunk freshmen on one of the lower floors. I hope that's where they stay; the last thing I need right now is to bump into some overexcited, intoxicated girls and have to make an attempt at conversation.

What I need is to calm down and go back to bed.

There are four sinks side by side, each one headed by a slightly grimy mirror. It's where I catch the first glimpse of my reflection—and what I see isn't pretty. I've always been pale, but now all the color has drained from my face, emphasizing every blemish and leaving me as white as a sheet. The circles under my eyes are the shade of fresh bruises, and my dark-brown curls are matted from tossing and turning.

I look like I've seen a ghost.

Maybe I have.

I turn on the faucet, bending over the basin to splash water on my face. The cold is welcome against my clammy skin, and I stay hunched over for a few seconds longer than necessary, before finally bringing myself to straighten up.

And in doing so, I catch sight of the one thing I don't want to see.

Through the tiny, health-and-safety-permitted crack in the bathroom window: the lake.

This time, it isn't a figment of my subconscious imagination. It's real: a giant black mass in the middle of campus, hidden away from the streetlights, darkened by the shadows of the trees. I've taken the long walk to campus every day for the last two weeks to avoid going past it, but here, it still manages to send a chill down my spine from afar.

Not that there's any danger remaining. The grounds staff put up the safety fence a week after Josh's death, along with the multitude of signs instructing people to keep away from the edge. Like his name and tragic story all over the local news wasn't enough of a warning.

Because you just never knew.

Josh Kelley was a strong swimmer, and yet he still drowned.

"Morgan!"

The choked voice is so clear in my head that it sounds like it's been spoken aloud in the bathroom. The vision that comes with it is even worse. Suddenly, I'm no longer standing in front of the sink; I'm sprawled on the muddy verge sloping down toward the lake, with Josh in front of me. He's almost fully submerged in the water, only his head breaking the surface, with hair plastered to the side of his face and his lips icy blue. He's thrashing around, but the movements are panicked and erratic—not enough to keep him afloat. Every time his head slips underwater it stays there a little longer, until I wonder if he's going to reappear at all.

When he yells my name—that strangled scream that rings louder in my head than any kind of fiction could—he ingests a huge gulp of water, and the next time really is the last.

The bathroom spins wildly as it collides with the image in my head. Suddenly, I'm shaking all over, and I have to grip the side of the ceramic basin to stop myself from keeling over. Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to breathe deeply and steadily, though I know it's going to take more than breathing exercises to fix the twisted oblivion inside my head.

After what feels like an eternity—though in reality is more like a couple of minutes—the calmness starts seeping in, the bathroom returns, and the voice in my head is stifled by the silence. Eventually I open my eyes. My head is ducked, and the water is still running, a clear stream swirling down the plughole. I'm not staying here longer than I need to, so I shut off the faucet and hurry back down the hall toward my room.

What was that?

Reality sets in once I'm safely behind the locked door, and the panic follows soon after. I don't know what came over me. I may have been having nightmares about Josh already, but I've never had a vision like that come to me while awake before—and certainly not one that felt so shatteringly real.

That's when the thought occurs to me.

What if it wasn't my imagination at all... but a snippet of my memory returning?

No. That's not possible. Six months, and the total blackout hasn't lifted once, so why now? It's not the first time I've set eyes on the lake since returning to campus. It's not even my first night here, when the wounds were fresh and raw and out in the open for the first time. If the truth about what happened that night was going to start dawning on me, it wouldn't be now.

Wouldn't it?

God, I need help.

As I flop back onto my bed, pulling my covers up to my chin, it's the obvious thought running through my mind. It's not normal to be feeling like this; I've known that for a while. And I know it's unlikely that I'll get myself back on the right track by myself. Professional help would be the logical step forward—but I've already established that's not an option.

Because if I saw a therapist, sooner or later, the conversation would turn to that night. It would be odd if it didn't. Then, I'd have to admit that the reason I'm struggling to process things is that I can't recall them. And that would lead to inevitable questions, because, wait a second—didn't that not line up with what I told the police? And wasn't it my empty testimony that helped them conclude it was a tragic accident—that Josh had simply fallen into the lake while under the influence of alcohol and been unable to get himself out?

At the time, the police's explanation made sense. I wasn't about to pull it apart in the name of blank doubt.

Especially if that doubt might incriminate me in the process.

I shake my head quickly. It's not an option. I can't tell anyone what's going on—or what's not going on—inside my brain. It would lead to too many questions, and I don't have answers to any of them. The vision could easily have been a fluke, a lingering part of my subconscious from that awful dream earlier... why worry unless it turns into a pattern?

My breathing slows.

I feel myself relax.

And I try to let this thought settle me as I burrow deeper under the covers, eventually slipping into a restless sleep.

-----------------------

DUN DUN DUN... 

Are you creeped out? Confused? Well, you're right there with Morgan. Something definitely happened the night Josh died, but it's a shame she can't remember it...

As always, please please please leave a comment to let me know what you're thinking! I wish it didn't, but it affects my motivation when there's a resounding silence... even if it's just an emoji to sum up what you're feeling ;) It really means a lot. 

Stay safe, and see you next chapter!

- Leigh