ON THE day of Beth Brown's funeral, Alana woke up at two in the morning and practically flew to the bathroom. She gripped the sink's porcelain edges, stomach rolling as scenes from her dream followed her into consciousness. She turned the water on and wiped her mouth.
It was nighttime and it had just started to snow. A snowflake landed on the windshield just before it exploded inward. A monster got hold of Alana -- it had human hands and a woman's voice. Alana scratched and screamed and kicked with all her might, but the monster wouldn't let go. Her limbs grew heavy and then she couldn't fight back anymore.
It was a dream that was also a memory.
It was when she became Alana Danvers.
There was a soft knock on the door.
"Alana? That you, hon?" Her mom's words were sleep-muddled.
"I needed water," Alana replied, sounding far too coherent and alert for someone awake and trembling from sickness in the middle of the night. Would her mom say anything about it?
"Alright, then. Go back to bed when you're done."
Her mom's slippered feet slowly shuffled away.
Spineless, the word shot through Alana's head, fork-tongued and vicious.
Alana sunk to the tiled floor and took deep breaths. Suddenly, wildly, she yearned for people whose faces she couldn't remember. They were a jumble of greens and blues and purples.
When she made it back to her room, she looked out of her window and watched as fat, white flakes fell outside.
▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁
"Why did I miss school for this?"
"A lot of kids missed school for this, hon. We're here to show support for Beth Brown's family."
"I don't care that Beth Brown is dead."
Alana's mom looked ready to crawl into an early grave. "Pretend to be sad, young lady, we are at your classmate's funeral," she hissed.
Alana's dad coughed into his hand to hide a laugh. "Tell that to Mrs. Brown. This a little girl's funeral or a Martha Stewart photoshoot?"
"It's not socially acceptable to laugh at funerals," Alana told him.
"You two will be the death of me," her mom muttered, rummaging through her purse as if she would find a socially acceptable husband and daughter in there.
"Can we leave early? I need to wrap our new tree before the snow gets worse," said Alana.
"Sounds good, let's leave early," her dad chimed in.
A vein was visible in her mom's neck. "No one is leaving early."
"The tree might die," Alana said.
"Zip it."
At the front of the funeral parlor, a coffin the color of pink ballet slippers lay on a pedestal, sweet as a piece of art. In front of the coffin was an oversized frame containing Beth Brown's recent school picture -- shiny curls in a satin ribbon and a haughty smile.
Beth Brown's mother stood beside the portrait, gaunt and glassy-eyed as she half-heartedly greeted guests. Beth's father was hunched over in a chair near the front.
The funeral service began on a dull and uninteresting note; some people sniffled quietly and wiped their tears. It was much like being in third-period math.
Part of the way through, Alana felt a prickle beneath the skin on her wrist. It was easy to ignore at first but it quickly spread throughout her body. She clenched her teeth hard and dug her nails firmly into the bottom of her chair cushion. She blamed it on last night's dream.
