I woke up screaming.

This is normal. I wake up screaming more often then I don’t. Mom doesn’t freak out anymore; she just pretends to sleep through it.
I stood up shakily and headed for the bathroom. I turned on the light and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to banish the images floating around in my mind. My sweat was cold against my skin.
I was pale, my eyes were empty. With a shiver, I remembered where I’d seen that expression before. On her, when she’d thought she was losing her dad. I clenched my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms until they drew blood. With a gasp I relaxed my hands, staring at blood on my palm. The images were back.
She was on the ground, blood streaming from her head wound… her limbs were twisted in odd angles… her face contorted with horror.
It was the last image I had of her, and it hadn’t even been real. Déjà vu was haunting me.
I washed the blood off my hands and traced the scars on my wrists. I went to my bed and laid awake, waiting for morning.