Constant

Chapter One

Running.  Why am I always running?  

I duck into a dark alley and tuck myself between two dumpsters to catch my breath.  But I sense that there’s no time for that.  I can hear the pounding footsteps getting closer and closer. Removing myself from my hiding place, I turn to face the other end of the alley.  There is none, and when I realize this, a strange noise escapes my throat that sounds like a groan mixed with a whimper.  I look into the light of my only escape, but it’s too late.  A dark figure its way towards me in long strides.  It reaches me in almost no time and slams me against the brick wall with such force that the air leaves my lungs.  I gasp for oxygen, but the figure plasters a hand to my mouth, and I can tell now that it is a man.  

    My eyes dart around, trying to figure out a way to end this all.  I look out into the street.  Surely someone out there can see us?  

    The figure reaches into his pocket and yanks out a dagger that sparkles in the darkness.  I can see a warped reflection of myself in it’s blade.  My violet eyes are wild and my hair is mangled.  How long has it been since I’ve made contact with a hairbrush?  The man presses the flat of the blade to my throat and stares into my eyes, as if deciding whether to kill me now or release me with a warning.  I hope he chooses the latter.  He turns the knife and begins softly running the blade back and forth.  It bothers me how harmless this is.  Why is he wasting all this time?  It’s as if he can hear my thoughts, because suddenly he raises the dagger and-

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

    I force my eyes open and sigh.  I’ve had that dream again.  I reach over and press the top of my alarm clock, accidentally sliding my finger along the sharp crack that appeared when I dropped it three years ago.  Muttering a few strong words under my breath, I yank my hand back and slide out from under my comforter.  

A few minutes later, with my toothbrush sticking out the side of my mouth and my fingers working a hairbrush through my hair, I enter the living room and shut off the television.  This is only routine, because my mom leaves it on through the night on a regular basis.  I don't understand why she doesn't just sleep in her own room.  There's a television in there, too.  I know because I asked my dad for the money to pay for it.  I also went to Best Buy to purchase it, and lugged it home with my friend Oliver's older brother in his flatbed truck.

"Mom?" I shake my mother's shoulders until her eyes flutter open.

"Good morning, sweetheart.  How was your sleep?" She asks, slurring her words.  I take my toothbrush out of my mouth, nod, and say, "Good," because I can't tell her about my dream.  I just know I can't.  I've been having it for 364 days now.  For some strange reason, I didn't even have to keep track of the dreams to know that number.  I just know.

"Oh, goodness." My mom mumbles, shaking the bottle of clear liquid in her hand.  "Did I drink that much last night?" I take the bottle from her hands and walk it to the kitchen sink, spilling it down the drain.  This is also part of my routine.  It's disturbingly comfortable.  It shouldn't be.  I shouldn't have to dump my drunk mother's alcohol down the drain every morning just to find her with another bottle of it when I get home later in the day.  

But that's the way it's been for years.  So I take it as it is.  

"Do you have work today, Dahlia?" My mother stumbles into the kitchen and starts the coffee pot.  Apparently coffee helps with hangovers.  

"Yeah, and my boss said I can come home an hour early today so I can be here when Sam gets here."

"Dahl, I don't want that stupid counselor to visit us anymore.  I'm so tired of him!"

"Mom, we have this conversation every Saturday morning.  Sam's a nice guy, and it's his job to help people."

"Dahlia..." My mother presses her fingers into her temples and cringes.

"Headache?"

She nods.  I give her a minute to decide what she's going to say next.  Unlike the average drunk person, she always knows what she's saying and can control the words that leave her mouth.

"You should go get dressed.  You don't want to be late for work." She says, pouring a mug of coffee.  She retrieves a container of chocolate-flavored creamer from the refrigerator and pours half the bottle into her mug.

"You know, your head would feel a lot better if you actually drank coffee with your creamer." I smirk.  She releases a small laugh, nods, and points to the hallway, indicating that I should finish getting ready.

"I hear someone's birthday is coming up soon." I smile as I hand a four-year-old girl from my neighborhood a cone of neopolitan.  She grins and squeals through a mouthful of ice cream, "It's tomorrow!  Wanna know what I asked my daddy for?" My heart drops a little, and I try to hide it by nodding enthusiastically.  "A big girl bike like yours, Dahlia!  Isn't that cool?"

"Aw, Rylee, that's awesome!" I glance up at her dad, then back at her, covering the side of my mouth as if I'm about to tell a secret. "Did you ask for one with a basket on the front?  Cause they're the coolest."

"Yeah, I did!"

"Okay, well make sure that if that's what you get, thank your daddy." My voice catches on the word "daddy", and I pretend to cough to cover it up.

Her dad hands me a wad of bills along with the money for the cone, and tells me to put it to good use.  I don't like taking his money, but he has enough of it.  He gambles on the  internet all the time.  Plus, I know him and his family very well.  He's been handing me wads of bills since I was younger.  When Rylee was born, it started becoming less and less, which my eleven-year-old self didn't take very well.  

"Have a good day, and enjoy the nice weather." I wave at them as they walk out the door, making the bells hanging over it chime.  I look up at the clock.  4:00; time to go home.

I gather my things from the back room, peek my head into my boss's small office to thank him for letting me go home an hour early, and head outside to my bike.  I tuck my purse into the basket on the front and take off down the bike lane of Bark Street.  Just before I pass a boutique on the corner, a young blond woman steps out in front of me, blocking my path.  

"Whoa!" I swerve to the side, missing her by an inch.  

"Sorry," she mutters, searching my face.  I meet her eyes, which flash bright green for a moment.  They remind me of the way mine do that every time I look in the mirror for the past year.  I always thought I was hallucinating.  

"Um, are you alright?" I ask. She nods.

"Yeah, yeah I am.  But I need to ask you something."

I expect her to ask directions or something, but instead I hear, "Have you been having strange dreams lately?  A reoccurring nightmare maybe?"  

I just stare at her for a few moments, deciding whether to answer her or not, but I feel as if it's okay to tell her.

"Mm hmm.  But-"

"How do I know?"

"Exactly."

"What's your name?"

"Um, Dahlia Austen." I'm almost surprised she asked.  Everyone around here knows me as 'the girl with the drunk mom and deadbeat dad'.  

"Okay, Dahlia.  I'm going to need you to go home, pack a suitcase with all your belongings, and come with me."