Before I Die Again

Chapter 1 — The Dream

I was dying again.

I knew it before I felt the pain.

There was something about the dream that always told me how it would end. Not a voice. Not a warning. Just a certainty that settled somewhere deep beneath my ribs, cold and heavy, as if my body remembered something my mind had forgotten.

Rain tapped against the windows.

I could hear it everywhere.

On the roof.

Against the broken glass.

Dripping through the cracks in the ceiling.

The house smelled like wet wood and dust.

I had never seen it before.

At least, I was certain I hadn’t.

Yet I knew exactly where the hallway ended.

I knew the door on my left wouldn’t open.

I knew the staircase would creak on the fourth step.

And I knew that if I turned around, he would be there.

I didn’t want to look.

I always wanted to look.

That was the worst part.

My feet moved across the wooden floor.

Bare.

Cold.

The sound of my steps disappeared beneath the storm.

Somewhere behind me, a floorboard groaned.

I stopped.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I didn’t turn around.

“Don’t.”

His voice.

Low.

Broken.

Too close.

I closed my eyes.

Every time I dreamed this place, I heard his voice before I saw him.

Every time, I told myself not to turn around.

Every time, I did.

I slowly looked over my shoulder.

He was standing at the end of the hallway.

I couldn’t see his face.

I never could.

The darkness seemed to gather around him, hiding everything except his silhouette.

Tall.

Still.

Waiting.

I should have been afraid.

Instead, something inside me broke.

I knew him.

I didn’t know his name.

I didn’t know where I’d met him.

I didn’t know why seeing him made my chest ache with a grief that felt older than my own life.

But I knew him.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He took one step toward me.

“Angela.”

My breath caught.

Nobody in my dreams ever called me by my name.

Nobody except him.

“How do you know my name?”

He didn’t answer.

He took another step.

Lightning flashed through the windows.

For one impossible second, I saw his hand.

A pale scar crossed the skin near his thumb.

I had seen that scar before.

Somewhere.

Sometime.

I couldn’t remember when.

He reached for me.

I stepped backward.

“Don’t.”

His voice cracked.

This time, I heard fear in it.

Not fear of me.

Fear for me.

“Please.”

The hallway disappeared.

The house shook.

The walls seemed to breathe around us.

And suddenly I was outside.

Rain poured over my face.

I was standing near the edge of a forest.

The house stood behind me, dark and abandoned.

Something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

I looked down.

Blood stained my dress.

I pressed a trembling hand against my stomach.

My fingers came away red.

I stared at them.

“No.”

The word escaped my lips.

Then I heard footsteps.

He was running.

“Angela!”

I turned.

He reached me just as my knees gave out.

His arms caught me.

The impact sent pain through my entire body.

I looked up.

For the first time, I was close enough to see his face.

But before I could focus on it, another wave of darkness swept across my vision.

He held me tighter.

“Stay with me.”

I tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

His hand pressed against my cheek.

It was warm.

Real.

I could feel him trembling.

“Please.”

I had never heard anyone say that word like that.

As if my life was the only thing keeping the world together.

I lifted my hand.

My fingers touched his face.

“I know you,” I whispered.

His eyes closed.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I know.”

The pain disappeared.

For one beautiful second, there was only him.

His arms.

His heartbeat.

The rain.

And the strange certainty that I had been here before.

Not once.

Not twice.

A hundred times.

Then he leaned closer.

His forehead touched mine.

“I’ll find you again.”

My heart stopped.

The world went black.

I woke up screaming.

I sat upright so quickly that the sheets tangled around my legs.

My room was dark.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

My heart hammered against my chest as if it were trying to escape.

I stared at the wall.

My wall.

My room.

My life.

The pale blue curtains beside my window moved slightly in the morning breeze.

No rain.

No forest.

No abandoned house.

No stranger holding me while I died.

Just my bedroom.

I pressed a hand against my chest.

“Just a dream.”

My voice sounded unfamiliar.

I swallowed.

“Just a dream.”

I repeated it because I needed to believe it.

I had been having the dream for almost three months.

Always the same house.

Always the same man.

Always the same death.

The details changed sometimes.

The weather.

The clothes I wore.

The place where I fell.

But the ending never changed.

He held me.

And I died.

I threw the blanket aside and climbed out of bed.

My feet touched the cold floor.

Seven twelve.

The numbers glowed red on my alarm clock.

I had slept for less than five hours.

Again.

I walked toward the bathroom, rubbing my eyes.

Halfway there, I stopped.

Something felt wrong.

I looked down.

There was a thin red mark on my left wrist.

I stared at it.

It looked like a scratch.

Three small lines.

Parallel.

Fresh.

I touched them.

They stung.

My stomach tightened.

I had no idea where they came from.

I hadn’t cut myself.

At least, I didn’t remember doing it.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light.

My reflection stared back at me.

Messy brown hair.

Pale skin.

Dark circles beneath my eyes.

Nineteen years old and already looking like I’d spent my life losing sleep over something I couldn’t remember.

“Great,” I muttered.

I leaned closer to the mirror.

The scratches were still there.

I turned my wrist.

Three red lines.

Then, for just a second, I thought I saw something behind me.

A shadow.

A man standing in the doorway.

I spun around.

Nobody.

The bathroom door was open.

The hallway was empty.

My heart started racing again.

“Okay.”

I stared at the empty doorway.

“You’re officially losing it, Angela.”

I turned back toward the mirror.

Nothing.

Only me.

I exhaled slowly.

This was getting ridiculous.

Dreams were dreams.

People didn’t bleed because of nightmares.

Houses didn’t appear in dreams for a reason.

And mysterious men didn’t crawl out of your subconscious just because your love life was nonexistent.

I grabbed my toothbrush.

“Definitely losing it.”

For the next thirty minutes, I tried to behave like a normal person.

I showered.

I dressed.

I tied my hair back.

I drank half a cup of coffee and forgot about it until it went cold.

I avoided looking at the scratch.

I avoided thinking about the dream.

It didn’t work.

By eight fifteen, I was standing outside the small café near campus with a paper cup in my hand and the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching me.

I looked over my shoulder.

People walked along the sidewalk.

Cars passed.

A woman hurried across the street.

A man was arguing on the phone.

Nobody was looking at me.

I sighed.

Maybe I really was losing it.

My phone vibrated.

A message from my best friend, Lily.

Running late. Save me a seat.

I smiled.

At least something in my life was normal.

I walked inside.

The café was warm and crowded, filled with the smell of coffee and cinnamon.

I found a small table near the window and sat down.

For the first time that morning, I felt my shoulders relax.

I opened my laptop.

I had an essay due Friday.

I had exactly three pages written.

None of them made sense.

Perfect.

I took another sip of coffee.

Then the bell above the café door rang.

I didn’t know why I looked up.

Maybe because the room suddenly felt colder.

Maybe because some instinct inside me whispered that I should.

Or maybe because I had already seen him.

He stood near the entrance.

Dark jacket.

Wet hair.

Hands in his pockets.

He looked like someone who had walked through the rain for a long time.

My fingers tightened around the coffee cup.

I couldn’t breathe.

I knew him.

No.

That was impossible.

I had never seen him before.

But my body didn’t seem to care what my mind believed.

My heart recognized him before my eyes did.

The room blurred around me.

The conversations became distant.

The sound of the coffee machine disappeared.

All I could hear was the rain from my dream.

Except there was no rain outside.

The stranger lifted his head.

Our eyes met.

And everything inside me went still.

His eyes were exactly the same.

The same eyes from the dream.

The same sadness.

The same impossible familiarity.

He stared at me as if he’d just seen a ghost.

Then he whispered something.

I couldn’t hear it.

He took one step toward me.

I stood.

My chair scraped against the floor.

People looked at us.

Neither of us moved.

He looked terrified.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Terrified.

And somehow, that scared me more than anything.

He took another step.

“Angela?”

My stomach dropped.

I had never told him my name.

“How do you know me?”

His face changed.

For a moment, something like relief crossed his eyes.

Then pain.

He stopped a few feet away.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

My heart pounded.

“What?”

His gaze moved over my face as though he were memorizing every detail.

As though he had been waiting years to see it again.

Then he said the words that would change everything.

“You really don’t remember me?”

I stared at him.

And somewhere deep inside my mind, something ancient whispered his name.

John.

I didn’t know how I knew it.

I didn’t know why.

But I knew.

John.

And for the first time since the dreams had begun, I was afraid of waking up.