Being Shot

P h o t o #55 - Colorless World

P h o t o #55 - Colorless World

Whenever I had a dream so terrifying it had me howling in the night like a stray dog calling out in agony to the owner it lost, I always came to my senses the moment I realized that I was no longer in my childhood bedroom. My grandmother would come running into my room as fast as she could on her arthritis ridden legs, and the moment she'd lay a hand on me, the static that had accumulated from her shuffling slippers against the carpet flooring always seemed to shock the two of us.

We payed no mind to the sudden electricity as she pulled me into her arms and soothed my trembling self until my eyelids grew heavy and I felt that I could once again fall back into my slumber, even though just moments ago I awoke believing I'd never do so again.

I learned after many nights of being haunted by the same vision how to wake myself when I faced the memories my cruel dreams dangled before me, to rip myself from the grip of my guilt ridden subconscious. It was simple; child's play for me once I got the hang of it. All I had to do was convince myself that what I was seeing wasn't the truth, even when I knew that it was a twisted version of just that. Sometimes it took longer than others, but I was always able to yank myself away before I allowed myself to be swallowed whole.

This was the first time I pursued a dreamer rather than the opposite. Ever since that day, I spent my sleeping hours running frantically away from the demons that haunted my dormant mind, my waking hours consumed with anxiety when they finally got too me. It had been awhile since I had one of my night terrors, and it seemed I was so unfamiliar with them that I played right into their hands.

Dreams of my mother were inevitable. After all, the memory of her tall frame walking away from me four years ago, never to return was burned into the back of my brain. I couldn't help but remember her honey colored eyes, her hair the color of warm amber under the sun. The only thing I had acquired from her was my height and the tendency to run away from my problems.

That same swish of the hips was what I noticed first, her body garbed in her formal clothes consisting of a navy pencil skirt and white blouse, the clothes I always admired as they hugged her curves in ways I wished clothes would someday hold me. The click of her low heals echoed in the space we occupied as her body repeated the same motions it did the day we parted ways.

Her golden, curled locks were twisted low into a modest bun, and without thinking I found myself reaching out to the woman who gave me life.

"Mom," My voice, sounding as if it were under water, was barely audible.

I stood from where I sat, never noticing how large my mom seemed, how small my hands were. My bare feet slapped against a floor that didn't exist, yet seemed to solidify under every single step I took. The farther my mother seemed to get from me, the brighter she glowed amidst the dark.

Dreams like this, as I said, were unavoidable. They always kept me wondering, questioning what would have happened that day if I had reached out the way I am now to my retreating mother, rather than standing quietly for hours staring at the empty driveway until I found it in me to knock on my grandmother's door. Would she have turned and apologized? Would she have come to her senses right then and there and taken me back home? Would she have ignored me and kept going? Would she have even considered her decision again, or was her mind made?

My voice rose higher, "Mom."

I quickened my pace, my significantly smaller feet racing as fast as they could across the unknown plane. My breathing turned into puffs of wheezes, and if I had realized, I would've wondered why my lungs burned so bad just by moving so little.

My hands stretched as far out as they could in front of me, my final call, a scream that seemed to bring through the barrier that muddled my voice, rang out around us.