A Familiar Scent
Your forehead moves again, but this time, it isn’t because you move it. Whatever you’re resting against shifts ever so slightly. It does it again, and then again, steadily and rhythmically…almost as if it’s…breathing.
A huge bell goes off in your head, putting two and two together as your body continues to give in to the magical trance it’s under despite your brain struggling to tell it otherwise. Your nose doesn’t seem to want to be set free of the aromatic spell it’s under, either.
You find yourself in a very strange state of calm despite your gut feeling that something is off. Even though your mind is starting to race with questions, your body seems to turn flaccid, abnormally relaxed as if all the muscles and nerve endings from your neck down were on a lunch break.
You let out a long and contented sigh, your relief so apparent in the exhale that it almost sounds like a moan.
You try—not very adamantly—to open your eyes, but they won’t budge. It isn’t exactly your best effort, and you honestly don’t want to wake up just yet despite the strange compulsion you feel to do so.
Suddenly, something even warmer grips one of your hands, practically engulfing it. The contact is jolting, making you inhale sharply at the sensation, and yet it creates an indescribable surge of…of…something; almost like a blistering surge of energy, starting intensely at the point of contact at your palm and traveling throughout the rest of your body with a strange mix of both incredible speed and languidness.
Your toes curl involuntarily, bending of their own accord, as if their movements have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of you. As if they aren’t even a part of your body any more.
Your nose seems to have developed a brain of its own as well, taking in the woody male blend with complete abandon, like nothing else in the world is more important than allowing the scent to completely intoxicate it.
Slowly, you begin to register the unmistakable feel of long, strong fingers around your wrist despite your inability to see anything.
You should be scared, or at least somewhat concerned, but you’re not.
For whatever strange reason…you’re just not.
Still, you know something is off, and you want to wake up, if only to see what it is.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on which parts of your body you ask at the moment—you’re having an incredibly hard time doing so, thanks to the sleeping pills. You suppose you should be ecstatic they’re working, even if they can’t put your mind to sleep as well.
Your brain definitely seems a little bit more eager to wake up.
Every other part of you? Not so much.
You feel your body lying there like a sinking boulder in the ocean, like it weighs fifteen tons—with your eyelids alone carrying half that weight.
Well, if nothing else, at least now you know for sure that the pills actually work—to some extent, anyway—and you didn’t completely waste your money on them.
Your body feels so sated and relaxed you could cry out of sheer happiness and relief after constant sleeplessness and severe anxiety for almost two consecutive weeks.
You keep wondering how the hell you’re still even alive after—
All your thoughts come to an abrupt halt as your brain suddenly highlights the word:
Those five little letters hit you with the weight of a million and one tree trunks as the blend of edgy cedar and sandalwood continues to invade your nostrils relentlessly.
A scent you now realize you’ve smelled before…
Your mind grapples with itself, trying to pinpoint its acquaintance, and soon enough you realized why the scent is familiar.
It was the scent inside the little white cottage…
The one from your lucid dream.
The scent of Mr. Reaper.