CONTENT WARNING: survivor’s guilt, descriptions of gore, references to harm of children, depiction of flashback, references to murder and torture

He was there again. Just like every night. The sewer system stretched endlessly before him, bathed in dark red lighting and stinking of blood and waste. Out of all the kids, he was the only one who had made it out alive. The killer keeping them trapped down here was sadistic and methodical, chipping away at them all bit by bit before finally ending their misery. Georgie, too, had been destined for a grisly fate – but he was far too determined to survive to let that happen. He would escape and live for both himself and everyone else who couldn’t make it out. The only things left behind there were one of his front legs and most of his psyche.

“C’mere, kid…” sang a raspy voice from down the tunnel, and instantly Georgie felt his blood run cold. He broke into a sprint without hesitation, flying through the labyrinth to the place where his nightmare always left the exit. He’d do anything not to see the face of what he knew was pursuing him again. Literally anything.

This was his fault. All his fault.

Rounding another corner, he had to bite back a soundless scream. Body parts dangled from the ceiling, dripping blood like a steady rain onto the floor below. Thousands of them – infinitely more than just the twenty he’d been part of – all with blurred-out faces and proportions that made no sense. The run for freedom in the real world had been tame compared to what his subconscious always came up with, and he knew in the back of his mind that he was about to be in for a much, much harder time tonight.

Come on, keep going…

The floor below his paws, which was made of concrete, caved below him. Georgie landed hard on his back in murky, dark water like what he’d had his head dunked in repeatedly as punishment, bottomless and with no hope of light. He could barely even see the bright yellow of his rain slicker through the gloom, much less tell up from down. He sank and sank and sank until he was dry again, bleeding and heaving on the ground while that all-too-familiar grin gleamed down to mock his suffering.

“This is all your fault,” it chorused in the shrieking voices of the other children, and he could no longer hold back the tears. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!”

To his horror, when he opened his mouth to apologize, all that came out was blood. Their blood. His blood. The sirens were starting to wail in the distance, blue and red flashing like a strobe light and racing towards him.

“YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT!!!”

Terrified eyes snapped open.

They’re still here.

---

For around fifteen minutes, Georgie sat in the darkness of his new family’s trailer, weeping quietly and unable to move. The monster from his nightmare hadn’t left. Instead, it sat across the trailer from him where his parents should’ve been sleeping and stared blankly at him. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body did anything but.

Sleep paralysis, he reasoned in his brain, trying to do the breathing technique his psychiatrist had taught him for panic attacks. He’d have to report this to her. It was probably a new symptom of his PTSD.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

He reminded himself that this was only a hallucination. Just his mind playing tricks on him.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

Box breathing didn’t make it go away, but it did offer him enough oxygen to actually think.

It’s not real. It can’t hurt me.

The feeling ebbed from terror into a deep, aching sense of sadness. He doubted he could ever describe the reason for it – the emotion was far too complex – but it often came around after a nightmare like this. A sense of failure and guilt, and then grief for both the other children and the boy he used to be. It hung heavy in his mind whenever it visited, and it never quite left.

I’m safe now. Why am I still scared?

Realistically, Georgie knew that he was never going back to that sewer. Thanks to his escape, the police had been able to catch and apprehend the killer, who was now rotting in jail after a surprisingly swift court case. The evidence had stacked easily against them. There was no chance of them ever finding him and no chance of being in that situation ever again. The air here was clear and smelled like freedom, so unlike the dank, dark sewage system he’d been trapped in. And yet, despite it all, he still felt terrified.

They weren’t coming for him. He knew that. He knew that, and yet he couldn’t help his paranoia.

Glancing back up at the monster, which still hadn’t taken its eyes off of him, Georgie tried to find something to focus on. His instincts screamed that he couldn’t ignore its presence, so he didn’t. Instead, he looked at it and listed out in his head why it obviously wasn’t his actual tormenter, and therefore obviously not real.

Wrong nose shape. The face that had tortured him had a much more blocky, reddish one. The ears were too long, too. The killer’s had been short but tufted. The eyes were the wrong shade of amber, the fur wasn’t the right length, the menacing grin was too symmetrical. It wasn’t the real deal, just a very convincing knockoff.

See? Not so bad, is it?

Although he wasn’t fully convinced, Georgie certainly felt a little bit more comfortable – even if it was by only a fraction. For a long time, he sat there and stared at it, letting his thoughts wander. He hoped it would be pancakes for breakfast. He’d heard that it was possible to make them on a griddle while camping, and he was more than a little curious to see how. Maybe he could help. Back when he’d had both forelegs, he’d been amazing at making things in the kitchen. If he could still pull it off, maybe he could impress the other kids with his skills.

Speaking of the other kids…

Josephine was sweet. She reminded him of a cartoon protagonist, always getting into trouble or talking someone’s ear off. At this point, he didn’t completely understand her zest for life in such a horrible world, but he couldn’t deny that her energy was a little infectious. Rosie was gentle. At dinner, she’d been thoughtful enough to save him a seat and get him better acquainted with everyone. There were more kids than just the four he’d met, as it turned out. Caleb, Marnie, and a handful of other names he hadn’t committed to memory yet. He hoped maybe one day he’d actually feel like one of them. He hadn’t made any friends since the sewer, and a part of him was honestly worried that he was broken beyond repair by what he’d seen.

And yet, for some reason, I still get a second chance.

Tomorrow, he’d try to get to know the rest of the group better. Hemlock and Rosie would probably be the easiest place to start, but maybe he could also try with Josephine. He’d ask about their hobbies. Did anyone else bake or cook? Julian was definitely an artist, so maybe he could ask about that. What if he asked Hemlock to teach him more about making flower crowns? That could be fun.

He didn’t even notice when the vision of his tormenter disappeared into thin air, leaving him alone again in the peaceful dark. If he had, he also wouldn’t have cared. Georgie was, for the first time in a long time, thinking about fun things. About kid things. About normalcy and being a teenager and just living his life.

I wonder if it’s possible to make a s’more in a household setting. Could you roast marshmallows over a stove?

The brown tabby rolled onto his back, smiling up at the ceiling with heavy eyes. I’ll ask tomorrow. Someone probably knows, he concluded, holding his remaining forepaw up and reaching for the ceiling. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a hopeful gesture.

He could do this. He could heal and regrow. He could take the steps to recover… starting with letting himself fall back asleep.

I can be okay again.