ONE
I dream of blood, I dream of drowning—to the point of almost dying. That is, until I wake up. And I always wake up. I’m waiting for the time I don’t, but for now—for today—I decide just to be grateful. Not think about other possibilities.
I reach around and pat the sheets to feel they’re real—and not wet. I’ve had surprises, seeing as how I’m frequently stuck in a magical sea or ocean, so… It never hurts to be too careful and check. While I attempt to gather my bearings, I smell coffee wafting up the stairs and am convinced my dreams are finished. At least until I sleep again.
Not even a minute ago, I had been deep in the forest with beautiful creatures. I’d smelled fresh air and soaked up the sun’s rays filtering down through the trees from what had to be miles away. Some winged beings flew above my head in graceful patterns.
Still others had wings yet couldn’t fly, but that didn’t take away from their magic. Most were like humans—they looked the same—and they stayed on the forest floor. With me. Acting as if I belonged and was a part of their world. I found them all to be wonderful.
Not a single one was as boring and simple as the pale, yellow walls and dark, matching furniture that decorate the hideous room my mother seems to think a seventeen-year-old would want to live in. I cannot wait to graduate and move out of here, that’s for sure.
I’ve started to form a theory that my dreams—amazing dreams – they’re lucid so I can control them—are a bit more than just dreams. They’re like visions in a way. Like I’m seeing something that’s real, yet can’t access. Not yet, at least. I’m too aware and able to do what I want and they’re just too … odd to be regular old dreams. Even lucid ones.
I can’t really make sense of the scarier ones when I have them, though. I don’t have a clue where they come from, nor why they’re so different from the beauty of the others. And especially why those ones, I can’t control. I’m simply along for the ride in those babies – things I don’t want to see, shown to me regardless. Maybe I have something super dark hidden in my subconscious, or a past life or something. Which is why I kind of believe they’re visions. But if I am being shown a different life, it can stay in the past or wherever it is. I’m quite fine with that.
Well, sort of. It would be nice to experience something different than my daily dose of boredom. But whatever … I get to thinking like this and it creeps me out. Feels too real or something.
I glance at the clock—6:17. A sigh of relief escapes me. Plenty of time. School doesn’t start until eight in my little town.
Grabbing my worn, leather-bound dream journal, I pull the pen out of the side loop and relax back against my pillows. The one and only comfortable thing about my room. I focus on breathing deeply and close my eyes to bring the dream back to life. Within seconds, I remember the smell and colors—every sensation, and begin to scribble.
I write of that night’s adventures, praising the dream gods—or whoever rules these matters, I’ve no clue—that I’d encountered glorious creatures before I awoke. I’m definitely relieved my nightly dreams have returned to visions of wonder rather than the recent episodes of terror. A little too recent for my comfort, but at least it’s been a few days. Enough time to try to forget.
Not once can I remember getting ready in the morning without first writing down what occurred while I slept. Something has always told me it’s all important; to remember as much as I can. As if a strange wind whispered in my ear, I realized long ago it was pointless to try to leave bed without listening.
But I delve so completely into my thoughts, time isn’t ever a factor. After what feels like maybe ten short minutes of writing, I look at the clock on my nightstand again and gasp. 7:18. Aw, hell! It never fails that I’m behind schedule when my boyfriend pulls into my driveway to pick me up. I can hear it already, ‘Alexis, you know…’
Not a chance I’ll be able to shower, I have to fix my hair and make it somewhat presentable. Any other girl might put it in a simple ponytail on such an occasion, but I hate my ears. And by hate, think of it in the truest sense of the word. They’re more than a bit large for my taste. I hide them at all costs. I’ve no clue what I did to deserve such elvish ears … maybe my mom did too many drugs when she was prego. Who knows? OK, I’m kidding, but still… I turn on my straightener, even though I know that will only take more time. Whatever. Late is late is late, right?
While waiting for the flat iron to heat up, I grab a pair of jeans off a pile on a chair—a great spot to put clothes. I can’t stand putting them away. I’m a clean person and all, but it’s just such a hassle. I’m going to take everything right back out of the closet and drawers in a couple of days anyway, right? I choose a random t-shirt from the closet. ‘I am not a nugget,’ along with a picture of a baby chick, is printed across the front. I remember Blake bought that for me at the mall, which reminds me of my birthday necklace from him.
I throw the clothes on, making sure said necklace isn’t tucked under my shirt—it’s pretty cool and I want to show it off, and then I head back into the bathroom. Picking up the ice-cold straightener, the unplugged cord falls down and hits my leg. For a smart girl—or so I’m told based on stupid test scores - the ones that put me a grade ahead back in fifth—I tend to do brainless things. But at least I know I’m lacking in the common sense department. That’s gotta count for something. And besides, like it’s my fault. Who the heck shoves a kid so far ahead … I’m going to graduate in like a month and I just got my driver’s license?!
My cell phone alarm beeps and I jump back and bump my heel into the wall. Great, now I’ll have two new bruises and Blake will be here in only ten minutes. I feel the headache start banging away, starting with a simple drum solo but I know it won’t take long to gain momentum.
“Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter as I grab the cord to plug it in, only to drop it again. OK, never mind. There might just be such a thing as too late.
Instead of using the straightener, I dampen my hands and run them through my hair. ‘Meh’ to the results. Well, at least my waves are a bit tamer…
Not totally satisfied, but also having no choice in the matter, I grab my bags and journal and rush to the stairs. I never feel safe with my journal unguarded, so it goes wherever I do. Everywhere.
In the hallway, down the long stretch to my parents’ quarters, I glimpse a misty shadow. The rushing turns to a complete standstill. This shadow is not the type you’d normally see in a corner of a house—or anywhere, for that matter.
Weird. There aren’t even any windows to let in light, so how could a shadow appear? I stand in the dark for a second, squinting to see, and can make out an even darker figure standing not ten feet away. It has no defining edges, yet manages to loom like a large man.
I freeze. What else can I do? Barely able to move my mouth, I call out with a scared voice I don’t recognize. It sounds tiny compared to my normal raspiness. I have no clue what comes out of my mouth. My echo replies, the words jumbled, and my heart all but stops.
I sure don’t know what exactly is there, but a gut feeling and good old-fashioned instincts tell me it’s something I don’t want to think about. Nor see. Too bad I know it’s not my imagination. It’s something that belongs only in my nightmares, yet has been slowly edging into my days.
Hating to think about the creepiness going on, I force myself into action. Racing to the steps, I hurry down to the kitchen, heart pounding all the while, having come back full force.
“Blake is already here, sweetie,” Bonnie tells me. She once was one of many nannies I’d had, but she’d stayed on way past the time one would normally leave. Now she’s basically a glorified housekeeper who tends to me because my parents can’t be bothered. What with their ohsoimportant social and work lives.
“I know, I know.” I give Bonnie a hug and accept the cheek kisses she loves giving. “Are there any Pop-Tarts?”
“Over there, honey. They are in the paper towel on the counter. Make sure to take a drink.” I
feel her watching me with admiration. It warms me up—the old woman seems to live for me. Weird, but kind of cool, too.
“Have a great day,” she calls as I grab a bottle of Sunny D and my food—I cannot go without eating in the morning. I’ll admit, I feel like a little kid being given my breakfast, but it’s pretty nice to have an adult around who at least cares whether or not I eat…
When I make it to the front entry and yank open the door, Blake is standing there staring at me blankly. A chilly vibe drifts my way. Like every other morning, he’d been waiting so long he had come up to the house to get me.
He starts in on me right away like I knew he would. “Hey babe, this can’t keep happening. You’re not the only one I give a ride to, ya know.” Yeah, cause I’m stupid and haven’t ever noticed anyone else in the car.
Despite my state of confusion about the scene in the hall and, sure, I’ll say it—fear, I can’t help but smirk inside a little. Just inside.
One glance at the book in my arm causes Blake to shake his head. The inner smugness I’d felt for a brief second disappears as if some higher being snapped its fingers an inch from my eyes. I close them to gain composure and run one hand through my hair. Calmness definitely isn’t coming like I want. Instead, I find myself wishing I could just rip my hair right out.
I so can’t handle this crap right now. What was that up there? Hell. Gotta put on the damned happy face… Smooth things over.
I gesture at myself in grand fashion to show I obviously don’t look like a beauty queen, and then apologize, as is the norm. “Yeah, I know and I’m sorry—I just couldn’t get going this morning,” I pause for a second, searching his eyes for any emotion besides anger, without success. “I really am sorry. I’m trying to be quicker lately. Promise.”
He simply looks down at me and cocks his head, something he’s been doing quite a lot of late, and I instantly feel like a child. I hate that I let him control how good I feel about myself.
“Whatever, let’s go. If Jeff brought donuts like he normally does on Fridays, I wanna be able to get one of them.” He tosses a brown lock out of his eyes and walks toward his car. He honestly was such a gentleman at first…
So wishing I didn’t have to, I follow Blake down the steps to the driveway. I open my own door, of course, and duck into the front seat of his Audi S4, slipping on the leather and choking on its smell. Spoiled brat—not like he pays a dime for his ride. But who am I to talk, little rich girl—or some may say…
At least I light up at the sight of Hollie. My best friend gives a quick wink with her ocean-blue eyes and tilts her head in a way that lets me know it’s not just us in the car. I also catch a sharp look from her—the trip so far hasn’t been fun, and we still have to travel all the way across our tiny Midwestern hometown of Wales to get to school.
Well, the truth is, I don’t gather all that info from the look itself, which only lasts a split second. Somehow I’ve always known everything Hollie is thinking, ever since she had long, pretty, blonde waves as a toddler to the self-cut, messy shag she sports at the moment. Of course I’ve never told her about this. Heck, she doesn’t even know about my dreams. It’s never felt right to share. I feel I’m not allowed to…
So I stay out of her head as much as I can and don’t bring it up. I don’t want to freak her out or anything. Plus, I like to think it’s all coincidence; that I only know these things because I know Hols so well. The alternative would be to accept that I can read minds, or at least one mind, and that would be way too strange. I’ve got enough weird stuff going on. I ignore it as best I can. That’s pretty much the only way to deal with things in my life, I’ve concluded.
Andrew Hopkins pops his head up front, shoving Hollie out of the way. I had a good feeling he was there, even though he drives himself a lot, so he doesn’t scare me. I’ve had enough of that for the day.
“Rude!” Hollie and I say in unison.
No matter how irritated I am, I can’t help but suck in a breath at the sight of the guy—and my gaze never stays away long. I promise I try. Blake’s friend always does this crap to me, with his chiseled features and blue-black hair that hits his long lashes in just the right way.
Every girl he meets loves him but, even though he’s gorgeous, something about his eyes creeps me out. The green is similar to my own color, but at just the right time, in the right light, when he is in the right (or wrong!) mood, they flash orange and give me chills. Of course other girls think it’s cool, that it makes him mischievous and beautiful. And he is, I have to admit.
“How ya doing today, A.Ho? You know, like J.Lo, but with a ho so it’s super funny on top of being a great nickname!”
That is, until he opens his mouth. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and Andrew falls back into his seat, laughing like he’s the next Dane Cook or something. My last name is Hodge and he thinks he’s come up with something fabulous.
“Ha ha! That’s just so funny! But you know, I could easily add a couple letters to that name and direct it at you and it’d actually be the truth. Both our names start with ‘h-o,’ you idiot.”
I ignore his grumbling about me being late again and change the tuner on the radio. Plugging in my phone, I scroll through my music files to one of my all-time favorite bands—The Beatles. My parents raised me on classic rock, but especially The Beatles. The start of it all. I used to get along with them—my parents, I mean—not The Beatles, but I guess all teens did at some point earlier in their lives. The starting notes are enough to calm me and I forget about Andrew and his asshole-ishness.
After turning the volume way up, I get into my messaging:
ME: srry grl. not in the mood 2 tlk.
HOLLIE: blake?
ME: what else? & andrw isnt helpng.
HOLLIE: k. jst relax & listn 2 ur music.
ME: thts the plan. luv u.
HOLLIE: luv u 2 grl.
I plan on not speaking during the rest of the car ride. I don’t want any opportunity to arise where I’ll have to engage in more exciting, witty banter. And I sure as heck don’t have anything to say to my boyfriend. That may sound immature and stupid, but he’s just been so mean lately…
I consider all the things he gets mad at me for and, yeah, I shouldn’t be late. But that’s an ‘in general’ thing for everybody. Then there’s the door. He opened my car door on our first date (with his mom driving—it was super cute) and has ever since. Until recently. It seems to depend on his mood. And that affects my mood. Not exactly a good dynamic.
But there’s the good stuff, too. Like the night of my birthday just last week.