It starts with the usual scene.
The hibiscus bush void of bloom, filled with sharp twigs like fangs of the past, looking at him from his bedroom window. The door less-an-inch open like a defeated sigh. The bedsheet crumpled, free of human warmth. The duplicate cold key, slouched.
The screech of tires against the gravel road, careful but rushed. The tightening of his chest. The forming of rock inside his throat.
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream.
He jolted awake, gasping for some needed oxygen. The dawn willing him, but his voice’s too afraid to call her name, again.