2:34 AM

It's 7:34 AM. I get up and get ready for work. On my way there, I notice that I'm not sleepy, despite having gone to sleep a couple of hours before the alarm. That was not on purpose: some days the screams last longer than others.

My coworkers greet me, and a friend gets me a cup of coffee right away — she knows me that well. She's the only one who doesn't say "good morning" to me like the others do, since she knows why my mornings are rarely good. But, unexpectedly, this one is. I watch the surprise on her face with amusement as I proudly declare:

"Good morning, Layla."

After a moment of stunned silence, she smiles back at me.

"Good morning, Sarah."

Then I hear my alarm again. It's 8:04. It takes me a few long seconds to realize that I hit snooze and went back to sleep — not knowing that I did. When I finally arrive at work (in the waking world this time), my boss greets me.

"Sarah, we need to talk."

I know what the talk is about. This was my third time being late this week. Twelfth this month. I stare at the two-weeks notice in front of me like it's a sentence, but an expected one. I can't blame anyone but myself. And him.

On my way home, I slowly come to terms with the fact that this wasn't a bad dream.

It's already dark outside when I turn my laptop on and open the e-mail with a job offer in a different country — not to accept it, but just to stare at it. This town holds a lot of memories, most of them grim enough that they could be confused for night terrors. But I've never been anywhere else. There's safety in familiar nightmares. I always tell myself that at least I know how to deal with them, though I'm not so sure about that anymore.

On Saturday, I have nothing better to do than to go to a poetry club. I'm supposed to hate poetry, but I don't. I only hate the one who made me pretend I did. As I sit and listen to the carefully crafted poems written by people who actually have enough emotion left inside of them to turn it into something beautiful, I catch myself realizing that I'm only doing it to punish myself. If I had enough money to afford a therapist, they would probably say I'm not supposed to do that. But I don't, so it doesn't matter.

The next person comes on stage, and I feel everything inside of me freeze. It's her. Mary. It's been three years since I last saw her. She doesn't seem to see me or recognize me as she starts reading.

I hope she reads a love poem dedicated to someone else just to show me what I've thrown away. She doesn't. All her poems are about hope, finding happiness during dark times and forgiving others as well as yourself. I don't take the words to heart, because I don't deserve to. I know myself to be the last person she'd ever want to say all of that to.

When the poetry evening ends and everyone starts to leave, I don't move. I should run before she notices me — but I can't. A part of me wants her to see me and start yelling at me, pointing out my ridiculous hypocrisy and cruelty.

She doesn't. Instead, she just sits near me.

"Sarah?" — she asks, her voice unsure.

"Mary," — I whisper like a crime confession.

We stay in silence for a while.

"So... Do you like my poems now?" — she asks with a nervous chuckle.

"I've always loved them."

"That's not what you said that day."

I can never forget the day she's referring to. It's burned into my mind like a brand.

It was the day I told her everything. About how my father once tried to hit me for kissing a girl, but she stood between us and got hit instead, ending up in the hospital. And about the way he screamed at my mother that night, blaming her for the way I turned out. That was the night that robbed me of the ability to fall asleep before 2:34 AM — the shouting ended at that time and I could stop straining my ears, waiting for the sounds of hits to start. They never did. I could try to sleep after I knew my mother was unharmed.

When I finally moved out, I thought I'd stop hearing those screams every night. Instead, they started lasting longer, as if to make up for the unfamiliar peace.

I thought Mary would leave after learning all of that. But instead, she hugged me and promised to stay. I didn't know what to do with that. I should've told her the reason I wanted her to leave in the first place. I should've told her about the phone call I received from an unknown number in the middle of the night. I should've told her that it was my father, telling me that just because I moved out and changed my number didn't mean I could keep bringing shame to his family. I should've told her to never meet with me again, because I didn't want her to get hurt. But the next thing I knew, she was reading a poem to me. I still remember the lines that almost made my heart stop.

"...And no matter if our future is easy or hard,

You will always have the keys to the door of my heart..."

It was the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing I've ever heard. I realized then that she wouldn't leave. She would stay and try to defend me. But I knew what happened last time someone tried.

I listened helplessly as I heard myself laugh at her and say the most cruel things I could come up with. "This is embarrassing. You're a terrible poet." And some lies about how I didn't even love her that much. I watched the tears form in her eyes, expecting her to lash out at me, but she didn't. She simply run away. "She's safe now. That's exactly what I wanted." — I told myself as I felt my own tears run down my face.

It wasn't until evening that I checked my phone logs, wanting to block my father's number again. But it wasn't there. And when I contacted my mother for the first time in years, she told me that my father died six months ago. Nobody wanted me at his funeral, and they couldn't even reach me to tell the news.

"So that's what happened." — Mary says. "You should've told me three years ago."

"I should've told you a lot of things three years ago."

An awkward silence follows. I try to offer her my new number, but she politely shakes her head.

"Not every door can be re-opened," — she says. "But there will always be new doors for you to walk through."

When I get home, I turn my laptop on and open the e-mail with the job offer in a different country. Not just to stare at it, but to accept it.