Sandman (Ceasefire #6) - Claire Marta Page 0,3

same shade his irises swirl for a moment.

“Why won’t you believe me?” I grumble barely stopping myself from stamping my foot in frustration. It’s bad enough I can’t remember who I am. Being told I don’t exist just annoys me. If it’s his idea of a joke I don’t like it.

“People just don’t turn up out of nowhere. No one ever comes here. They don’t even get washed up by one of the rivers on our shores since everything went to shit.”

“I woke up in a field, not on a beach,” I correct, wondering what he’s talking about. I’d seen no beach or river. At least not when I’d been lost in the storm…

“There is one solid way you can prove you exist to me.”

My eyebrow lifts at his quiet murmur. “And how’s that?”

A devious smirk crosses his lips. “Suck my cock beautiful, lost girl with the sad eyes. Let me cum down your throat and fuck your face. If you let me do that then it’s proof enough for me.”

I watch his free hand fumble down clumsily to grip the front of his crotch suggestively. The crackle of the flames in the fireplace is loud as I stand frozen. He can’t be serious? No way in Hell am I giving a guy I barely know a blowjob to prove I exist. Is he crazy? He can suck his own god damn dick.

Lips parting to tell him just that, I realize he’s no longer conscious. Features softened in sleep, the dark circles under his eyes give them a bruised appearance. He looks more like the washed-up lead singer of a goth band than anything else. With the velvety, deep caresses of his voice, I can well imagine him crooning song lyrics.

Who the heck is this guy? Perhaps he’s a jaded rockstar holed up in the sticks trying to escape the limelight and groupies. Although from his reaction to me, I’m surprised there’s not a harem of willing women wanting to please him.

Needing to be sure, I cross the few steps that divide us. Finger poking his solid shoulder, a soft snuffling noise rises as he breathes. If he’s drunk all the bottles strewn around him, I’m surprised he could stand and talk at all. It’s enough to knock out a fully-grown bull elephant.

Rescuing the one still wrapped in his hand, I take a swig. The taste burns down my throat making my eyes water. As the warmth from the alcohol hits my belly, I leave it resting on top of a small round table beside his chair. Spying a discarded duvet hanging over the top of a couch, I drag it onto the pillows. It’s not the most ideal thing, but it will have to do.

With the warmness of the fire at my back, I quickly strip off my clothes laying them close as possible to let them dry out.

2

Morpheus

Head pounding, my tongue feels like I’ve been licking sandpaper all night. Eyebrows quirking, I grope across the table beside my chair where I passed out. My lighter and packet of smokes lay waiting near an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Snatching it up, I flick it open. There’s not many left. The thought of running out has my lips turning down in displeasure. My Uncle will drop supplies off soon. The arsehole makes sure I’m never around when he does. If I lay eyes on him, I’ll kill him for abandoning our family.

He knows how I need them. That and the alcohol and drugs. My next fix to get me through the day. Addictions preventing me from feeling. Self-medicating numbs the pain and guilt that’s carved in my heart. My master. It controls every inch of my body and mind. If I don’t get what I need, I’ll start to hurt, grow weak.

The universe might not need all of us, but it won’t let me die. I’m the poor bastard who was left behind. Cursed with a sterile existence. A monotonous crawl of never-ending time without my habits to fill the days. I don’t give a fuck about anyone else or anything. I’ll do whatever it takes to get them. Not that it’s ever come to that. It doesn’t matter to me where they come from or who they are stolen from. Why should I care anyway? Nobody gives a shit about me. I’m just the forgotten arsehole in the middle of nowhere.

Cracking my eyes open, I’m met with a dimly lit room. The shutters keeping the sunlight out as