The Rhodes Method

eighteen

You were born reaching for your mother's hands
Victim of your father's plans to rule the world
Too afraid to step outside
Paranoid and petrified of what you've heard
--- BLUE, Billie Eilish

OCTAVIA RHODES

My mother, who owns a face that I will not be able to recognise if I accidentally bump into her on the street, appears in my dreams very rarely. When she does, and on the occasion that my mind does make up stories of her existence, they are unpleasant, and sadly, linger with me for the rest of the day.

The reason I do not dream of her regularly is simply because I've forgotten her, and do not think about her often. I read somewhere that every face that appears in your dreams belongs to a person you know or a person you've seen before. Whether it is the face of a stranger from the supermarket or a close relative.

My dreams mold the faces I know, to create a feminine figure, with dark hair like mine and striking dark eyes like my middle brother's. She has wispy features, pale skin, long hair, and embodies clouds and dreams and the unknown.

For the longest time, these dreams have not been an issue for me. Because I have never seen the woman who gave birth to me as a mother. She does not deserve the title. 

But lately, very lately, these dreams have been darker. I think these dreams burn with resentment and anger, and I refuse to calm the flames she has created because there is no stopping the anger I have found. I now blame her for everything. For Myles' condition. For her secrets.

If she did not get with my father again, if she did not have kids again after abandoning the three before, then Myles would not have handled the large secrets alone. And if Myles was not burdened with them, then he would not be feeling this way. And if this was the case, my brother's eyes would not be so dead, and he would not be sent away to a state far away.

She is the reason for my brother leaving for the summer. She is the reason why everything feels so wrong.

So now my dreams burn. Thick, harsh flames, of bright reds and deep oranges and grey smoke and everything in between. She stands in the middle. My mother stares me down and does not whisper an apology because she thinks she has not done anything wrong.

I wake up from this dream, gasping. I cannot breathe.

My eyes scan the room quickly, trying to come to sense with everything. My eyes meet the window; the cold surface, and the tears of the rain. It is cold. But I am not being swallowed in flames and heat. I'll be okay. I breathe out.

When my breathing calms down, I fall back on my bed and cover my face with my palms. Pressing them into my eyelids, I pray for these dreams to disappear. But I know they won't. Ever since I found out that my mother has new children and my father is with her again, she has been haunting my sleep. She is there, at the back of my mind, and I cannot do anything to make her go away.

I don't go to sleep after that. I don't cry either, because I've never been a crier, I've always been one to act on my anger. And that's what I wish to do now more than anything. I need a release.

My phone indicates that it is three in the early morning. So I toss my covers, pull on warm fuzzy socks, and rush to Damien's room.

His room is what you would expect. Veronica has been over to my house, maybe three times, but the third time she was over she had mistaken Damien's room for the bathroom. I have been convinced that she did not come back because of the sight she saw.