Dragon's Blood

Memories

It was dark. The kind of dark you could touch and feel. The kind of dark that smothered you, closed in on you and swallowed you up, never to be seen again. She was scared, she knew that, but she didn't know why. She felt so, so small and she wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound. Her mouth opened, the muscles in her neck strained and her throat felt hoarse from the effort but she couldn't hear a sound leave her lips. All around her was deathly quiet, far too quiet to be natural. Then suddenly, a noise, a scraping, scratching noise getting louder and louder. Something was coming for her! She stretched out her arms, feeling around her for a way out but her fingers only scraped on cold and dusty stone. She turned her back on the sound, pressed herself against the bricks, put her hands over her head and made herself as small as possible. Go away! Leave me alone! There was a sudden rush of air and light and then .....

Iyla woke with a gasp, her heart thudding and sat bolt upright in bed. She fumbled urgently for the switch on her bedside lamp until, with a satisfying click, warm light flooded her room and her breathing began to relax. Still with one hand on the lamp, she wiped a lock of damp, dark, reddish brown hair from her forehead, her skin was clammy with sweat and the air in her room was stifling. There was a knock at her door and she jumped, knocking the lamp to the floor.

"Iyla? Are you ok?" It was Sam, her Uncle.

"Come in," she mumbled, reaching down to retrieve the lamp. The door opened and Sam stood in the doorway, a concerned look on his pale face. He had equally pale blue eyes and almost pure white hair; the effect was a ghostly presence hovering in her doorway but Iyla could never feel fear for the man that had raised her, he was no spectre, he was the most solid and strong person in her life, the rock on which she often balanced precariously as a young teenage girl trying to make sense of her place in the world. He walked over to her bed and took the lamp from her, straightening the shade before placing it back on her bedside table and sitting down.

"Bad dreams?" he asked simply. He knew the answer, Iyla was prone to vivid and unsettling dreams.

She nodded. She'd had the dream before although it was not always the same. Sometimes she could smell burning and hear screams, sometimes she could hear herself screaming too. Sometimes the dreams were better and she thought she remembered before it happened, when the sun was shining brightly and she was happy playing. She had only been two, almost three. Too young to remember anything clearly if at all, to young to recall faces and words, but old enough for the some of the worst memories of that day to be branded on her mind forever, to creep up on her when she was asleep and vulnerable. She could never be sure which were real memories and which were made up by her brain to torture her.

Sam placed a cool hand on her hot sweaty one. "You do need to try and get some sleep," he said kindly, "It's very stuffy in here, I'll open the window and let some air in, you can leave the light on till morning if that helps."

"Thanks," said Iyla and lay back down as Sam opened the window letting sweet, cool night air into the room, instantly calming her.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" He asked, sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

Iyla rested her forearm on her forehead, the slight pressure easing the headache she could feel coming, probably caused by lack of a decent sleep.

"It's always the same," she sighed, "I know you've told me what happened, and I was too young to possibly have real clear memories, but it doesn't seem to stop my stupid brain from wanting to remember itself, or just make stuff up."

"It doesn't matter how young you were Iyla, you went through a trauma. I really do think talking to someone might help, a professional someone I mean, not just me."

Iyla shook her head, they'd had this conversation before, "No," she said, "We tried that remember? It was annoying talking to someone about things I can't really remember and it didn't help. They are just dreams aren't they? They can't hurt me, I'm old enough to know that now." She gave a wry grin, "A bit more sleep sometimes would be nice though."

Sam sighed and stroked her hair, he knew the trauma of losing her family at such a young age couldn't help but have an affect on Iyla, he had explained it all to her as best he felt he could, hoping that more understanding and information might help her brain process the jumbled memories of her two year self. He wanted to do more but he was very aware that any further help he could give might not be any help at all. He knew Iyla looked to him for assurance and for answers, he hoped she didn't realise how lost and unsure he felt most of the time.

Iyla had been playing hide and seek before bed time and the mischievous and slightly rebellious streak that she still had now, a decade later, had led her to her mothers pottery studio where she fearlessly climbed into a pottery kiln, quiet as a mouse, waiting to be found. She wasn't allowed in the studio on her own of course and she was too young to understand that no one would think to look for her there, and no one did find her, not until after when she had screamed her tiny lungs out until she was heard. The door had closed and Iyla had been trapped when her home had burned down. She had had parents, and an older brother until that day. Now she just had him and he often wondered if that was anywhere near enough.

Sam gave himself an internal shake, he couldn't blame Iyla for not wanting to talk about it, he spent most of his time trying not to think on the past. It had been hard, he too mourned the loss of his family and he had been thrust into a kind of fatherhood, certainly not something he had ever expected to be doing. They had moved far from home and he had often felt very alone in a strange place with no support and a very troubled and angry toddler in tow. He was proud of himself at least for helping Iyla through the traumatic aftermath of that day as best he could. All the sleepless nights, the violent tantrums, the anger she couldn't make sense of as a small child. She had grown into an amazing young girl and although there was no denying she still had a bit of a temper, she was also loving and kind and had a strong sense of right and wrong. She often seemed older to him than her years but, he reasoned, she often had to be. They never had much money, their life was very simple and she had to be mature enough to understand that she couldn't have or do the things her peers could. As a result, she did not make friends easily and found it hard to fit in, which pained him. But she never complained and seemed to be content in his company and that of their landlord who was a good friend and often joined them for dinner. Yes, he was very proud of Iyla and the person she was growing into, very proud and he made a mental note to tell he so when she didn't need to be going back to sleep.

He smiled finally, emerging from his thoughts as he tapped her alarm clock, "Hey look," he said, "It's well past midnight, Happy Birthday!"

Iyla grinned mid yawn, "Does that mean I get to open my present now?" she asked, only half joking.

"Absolutely not!" he said with mock indignation, then softly, "Now go back to sleep." He made to stand up but Iyla gripped his arm and he looked back at her, concern once again evident on his face.

"Um, would you just sit with me a bit?" Iyla asked, her eyes wide, embarrassed to ask but not wanting to be on her own. Without question and without a word, Sam smiled, swung his legs up on the bed and, resting his back against the headboard, put his arm around Iyla. She snuggled up to him with her eyes closed, she might have just turned thirteen but she was never too old to feel safe and loved.