Unspoken

Chapter 8

September 30, 1992

Marlena was awoken by another dream. Perhaps it was a memory. She wasn't sure, and a small part of her mind grew more and more afraid every time she dreamt of it. It was always the same. Blinding light, and excruciating pain as she screamed for Roman. The echo of Stefano's laughter in the background while a doctor with a foreign accent demanded she push. And then she would wake up in a cold sweat, feeling as if she might vomit. Sometimes she did.

When they'd first returned from Mexico, Roman had been supportive. He'd comforted her, and whispered kind words after her nightmares... until he learned what she was dreaming about. She wasn't crying out for him, she was crying out for John. She was crying for a baby that would have been John's baby, and Marlena couldn't even confirm its existence. His whole demeanor changed, and he'd been pulling away ever since. Her dreams became an issue of contention with him, fueling his jealousy and anger. He blamed Stefano. He blamed John, and he blamed Marlena. There were even moments when she realized that he blamed his parents, and the children. It didn't make sense.

She'd never felt so isolated in her life, and he was right beside her in the bed. She would wake from violent dreams just as the bathroom door slammed. She might wake up from a dream of making love to John, only to find Roman half dressed, and on the way to work. So she stopped telling him anything, and he stopped asking.

On her own she wasn't able to differentiate between reality and some of her dreams. She'd had the pagoda dream on the beach too many times to count, but she was only able to verify it was accurate with John's input. Seeing the truth in John's eyes made something that seemed fantastical suddenly become very painful. She'd been so close to him, and somehow Stefano had separated them again.

Her dream baby was burned into her soul. She'd never told anyone except for Roman. His reaction had been so negative, she never mentioned it again. She never mentioned that she'd named her Alise. But, having never seen the child's face, Marlena had fully convinced herself the child was a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of trauma, and her mind's way of protecting her from what really happened during those five years. She told herself, if she'd had a baby, John's baby, she'd never forget her. Not her own child. Not Alise. But as it was, Alise was nothing more than a name. Marelena had no memories of her face, or holding her, or mothering her. She only had a name, a reference, and a painful, traumatic birth that replayed while she slept.

She sat up in bed, glanced at the clock. It was one o'clock in the morning, but that meant it was dinner time in Colorado. She smiled, reaching for her glasses, and the medical journal she had been meaning to read. She could call the twins.

Grabbing a hair tie, she pulled her hair up on top of her head in a messy bun, and she reached down to slip on the sweatpants she'd kicked off before bed. Sliding them on, she tied the string at the waist to ensure they stayed on. They were much too large, but that was because they weren't hers. They'd been John's. A pair he must have forgotten when he moved out, and once found by her would never be his again. The words Salem PD were written down one leg, and the fabric was so worn there were small holes near the knees. When combined with the oversized, white Salem Police Academy t-shirt she was wearing, Marlena knew she was the perfect picture of a slouchy mess.

There wasn't a telephone in her bedroom, but there was one in the small library on the other side of the house. If she made her call from there she wouldn't disrupt anyone else in the house, and it was a huge home. The servants, a butler and a housekeeper, had rooms on the third floor. John and Isabella had the master suite. Brady was in the nursery, and there were at least three other bedrooms that were unused.

Marlena made her way towards the study, but upon her arrival she saw a thin beam of light coming from under the door. Was someone in there? Or had someone forgotten to turn off the lamp? She knocked gently, and then slowly opened the door. John was sitting on the leather couch near the fireplace, shirtless and wearing a plaid pair of pajama bottoms. A warm glow was cast over the room as the flames flickered, and the logs crackled. His dark hair was disheveled, as he glanced up in surprise. "Doc."