Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
There's a moat—because every princess castle has a moat to keep the Dereks away.
The blanket fort stretches across the entire living room, swallowing up the coffee table and the ottoman and half the couch. The fabric glows amber from the flashlight he tucked inside somewhere, the beam diffused through layers of sheets and quilts, turning everything soft and golden and safe.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"This one goes here, Lettie-bug," he says, his voice distant and warm. His hands are huge, pinning the corner of Mom's good bedsheet to the bookshelf with a stack of encyclopedias.
I'm holding the other corner, standing on tiptoes, trying to reach.
Everything moves slow. Like underwater.
The sheet ripples and sways even though there's no breeze. Dad's face blurs at the edges when I try to look at him directly. But I know he's smiling. I can feel it.
"Will it be strong enough?" My voice sounds small. Far away.
"Strong enough for what, baby girl?"
"To keep the monsters out."
He laughs. The sound echoes and multiplies, bouncing around the dream-memory until there are a hundred versions of his laugh surrounding me.
"Ain't no monsters getting through this fort," he promises, crawling inside on his hands and knees. "Come on. Let me show you."
I follow him in.
The space inside is bigger than it should be. Impossibly big. The sheets stretch up and up like a cathedral ceiling, and the flashlight beam doesn't have a source anymore—it's just everywhere, golden and safe.
Daddy pulls me into his lap. He smells like coffee and Old Spice. "See?" He wraps his arms around me. "Nothing can hurt you in here. This is yours. Your space. Your world."
I lean back against his chest. His heartbeat is slow. Thump... thump... thump...
But it's not true.
Things can hurt you everywhere.
The world is filled with Dereks who slither under the water looking for cracks in your cushion foundation.
I'm going to tell my dad this. As a grown up now, not as a child, but when I look over my shoulder, he's gone.
I'm alone.
Like always.
And the moment this thought hits, the blankets start dissolving. Becoming transparent.
Wake up.
The thought cuts through the dream like a blade.
Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP—
The world comes back in pieces.
Sound first. A faint humming that feels familiar but I can't place it.
Then weight. My body pressed into something soft. A bed. My bed. I feel like I was in a car accident. My whole body is sore.
I want to look around and see where I am, but my eyes won't open. Way too heavy and crusted with bits of sleep that act like glue.
Move. Come on. Move.
The voice in my head sound panicky. Like something is happening in the present—
Oh, shit!
Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit!
Something is happening in the present—I'm being drugged!
I force my eyes to open—the crusty bits pulling on the sensitive skin of my lashes until finally, the tension breaks and… light. Too much light.
I turn my head away, blinking against the brightness, and wait for my vision to clear. A ceiling. Specifically, my ceiling. I'd recognize it anywhere. Ugly popcorn. Cobwebs. That little water stain in the corner that looks like an eyeball.
I'm home.
What—
I push myself up on my elbows. My head swims, vision tilting sideways before it corrects itself. My mouth is dry. My body feels... wrong. Like I've been asleep for days.
How did I get here?
I look down at myself.
Clothes, not naked. The sage green ribbed leggings I love to death, but haven't seen in months because they got swallowed by a dirty laundry pile. The soft sweatshirt—my favorite. The one with the embroidered flowers on the front that's been in the corner of my bathroom because I was too lazy to pick it up and wash it.
I'm wearing them.
But they're clean.
I didn't do laundry. I haven't done laundry in—
Something glitters in my peripheral vision.
I turn my head too fast. The room spins again.
There's a Christmas tree.
A small one on the little table in front of the window that used to have seven dead potted plants on it the last time I was here. It's about three feet tall. Real pine. The scent is… amazing.
It's decorated. Handmade felt ornaments hang from every branch. It's a garden theme. This year's theme. I do a Pinterest board every year called "Perfect Christmas Vibes" and fill it with the most dreamy Christmas decorations I can find on Etsy.
This year's them is Spring Garden Christmas.
I know these ornaments.
The little brown mole with an armful of pink and yellow tulips clutched in his tiny felt paws. The Rabbit family wearing pastel waistcoats in mint green and lavender, each one clutching hand-stitched carrots with delicate embroidered tops.
A cheerful yellow rain boot overflowing with more tulips, their petals individually cut and layered.
There's a beekeeper in a tiny white suit with a miniature honey jar, and a garden Santa with a watering can instead of a sack, and a flower angel with wings made of layered petals and a daisy halo.