Intertwined

Chapter Four

The impossible nightmares were the only distinction I had between consciousness and unconciousness. The quality of my dreams had amplified almost immediately after I left Maine. If it weren't for the shifting monsters and constant low moans and cries of invisible beings, the clarity of those images would lead me to fully believe I was awake.

Last night's dream was paralyzing. New images of Lyall and Erica, shaping into unholy beings were an unwelcome change from the usual monsters that dwelled behind my eyelids. Though these nightmares were the most fearful, I never shot out of bed because of them. Only now that I was drenched in sweat, clenching my covers, this nightmare woke me. The image of Lyall, beastlike and hungry, sauntering toward me, prepared to go for the kill.

I was still shaking off the dream when washing my face, then eating breakfast, and making my way out the door. I knew that my dreams were nothing but a figment of my imagination, converging on the darker side of my mind—I'd read that depression will do that—and still, the images stuck in my mind like charcoal did on your fingers, staining.

Erica and Marleene weren't at the bus stop this morning. I was left with two strangers that stared at me. No malice, but still, I'm sure that staring was a universal no-no. The staring only amplified when Lyall waited for me outside of our Algebra class. He leaned against the grey lockers, his arms folded across his chest, the muscles bulging. His grimace lightened when he saw me. His teeth gleamed as the smile broke across his face. The stiff tension in his shoulders dropped and his arms fell to his sides. The picture of vulnerability.

"Day two, how you feel?" he asked, his voice rolling. It sounded like he hadn't spoken at all yet.

"Like my first day all over again," I said, too flat. Lyall's face flexed slightly.

After he tutored me for the hour, he walked me to my second class. He didn't even ask, the conversation before the bell rang just carried over until he was following me to the gymnasium.

"I don't think I ever asked why you moved here?" he said, changing the topic from a benign to thorny. I had actually been happy the question slipped his mind. I didn't want to travel down that path.

"Well, I used to live with my aunt, but she... passed a couple of weeks ago," I swallowed hard, "and my mom was the only relative that could take me, so here I am." I started. Lyall's eyes deepened while he listened. The concern matched with sympathy that was usually an unwelcome, hated thing, was lost on him. Sharing with him released some of that pressure from my chest. I found myself spilling more information just because it felt right, "I never really had a parent-type relationship with my mom, so living under her roof is weird. I'm trying my best."

"Trying your best?" he questioned.

"It's like, oh I don't know how to explain it without sounding like an ass hole..." I pondered.

"Like living with a stranger?" he suggested.

"Yes, that! Like living with a stranger. Don't get me wrong, I love her, deeply, but there had never been any—I don't know—any meaning to our relationship. She gave birth to me and then left. It feels impossible to reconstruct it now. She feels like more of an estranged aunt than anything else, I suppose."

"When did she leave?" he said. It was always a constant roll of questions with him.

I hiked my backpack higher on my shoulders, pulling at the straps, "I was four or five maybe? She visited every once in a while. I swear there were about three years we didn't see her, talk to her or about her."

"Why?"

"Why we didn't talk to her, or why she left?"

"Both," he said. It was clear when I met his gaze that he was invested in my back story.