Dreaming and the Art of It (On Hold)

Dreaming and the Art of It - Before - 3

Oh dear! What a bumpy ride already!

I’ve been up and down with this story, and it’s only Chapter Three! I’m not sure if that’s good, or bad. They say good things are worth blood, sweat, and tears, so hopefully it’s that case!

Now I’m really pumped up for this story again. (I even posted this out of schedule; I was supposed to post on Why I Hate Romeo and Juliet first [Don't fret! It'll come soon!])

The new storyline is so much more fun to write! And I think you’ll like Scarlett – she finally appears in this chapter!

-jennaxxx

Chapter Three

Roslyn:

“Nice place,” one of them looked around my living room.

“Thanks,” I drew a breath. “We all need to talk,” I blew it out, motioning for everyone to sit down while pulling out a few more chairs. Our living room only had a single, three-seat couch. The apartment was small, but it being only Dom and I, it worked. It only had two bedrooms, one of which was filled with storage boxes, a small living space, a kitchen, and a dining area.

When I stood, leaning against the door leading out of the apartment, I felt a small sense of worry.

‘He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.’

The chant barely worked, but I had to focus on the kids. “Names,” I blurted. “I need names.”

“I’m Lyra,” the small voice from the warehouse was equally quiet as she sat on the couch. She was petit, with thick brown hair that reminded me of Dom’s.

‘Get your head out of your ass, Roslyn!’ I scolded myself. I could’ve looked at a sack of potatoes, and it would’ve reminded me of Dominic.

Speaking of which, didn’t he say something about potato sacks earlier?

Oh right.

I winced at the memory, and picked up my chant.

Noticing that no one else gave their name after her, Lyra nudged the boy to her left. “I’m Markus,” he nodded curtly.

“Dexter,” the one who’d called me out on calling Dominic my more-or-less boyfriend. His eyes were bored and unnerving – and they were light, light blue, but flecked with dark navy. Pretty, to say the least.

“Owen,” the boy sitting on the couch, with the two girls, said.

“Harper,” the last girl said.

I looked back at all of them and examined them closely. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Harper answered on behalf of everyone. “Except Dex – he’s eighteen.”

I looked at Dexter. Somehow, he did look older than the rest. Sad, almost – as morbid as it is. Weary. It was only then that I caught the red scratch to his cheek, just barely smudged with blood. “You’re bleeding,” I uttered to him.

Instinctively, he touched his cheek and checked his hand. “Well would you look at that,” his voice was lacking of humor. “You got a band-aid?”

I nodded and hesitantly left my position from the front door to hustle into the bathroom. Dominic was always paranoid that one of us would get hurt sometime, and living in New York, we wouldn’t be able to hustle to a hospital, so he stocked our bathroom cupboard with every kind of bandage imaginable. I pulled one out and walked back to the kids to hand him the large square. Markus, the boy sitting next to him, pressed it to his cheek.