100 Dreams

Dream 2

Dark brown hair blows in the breeze, covering my face. The tree branches around me dance. The leaves sing. The world is full of reds, oranges and yellows. The green is fading. My favorite time of the year has come. Fall. The time for sweaters and boots and family. But I don't have a family. Not a real family anyways. Dreams aren't always made to be like your real life though. And I know this is a dream, just by who's standing in front of me. Dad.

He's the same six-foot four, goofy man I always knew and loved. There is something different about him though: the scars. There's two thin scars running from his eyebrow to his hairline on his left side. He's in a navy blue tee, and up his arms are hundreds of miniature scars. His hands are covered in thick, grotesque looking scars. He smiles at me, and his "Happy Lines" are gone. Maybe he's not the same. He's my dad though. He pulls me into a hug, and I instantly relax. Weeks of stress long forgotten. It's been eight years since he died, and I still dream about him all the time.

My mom's there too. Happy and beautiful and loving. Everything she was before Dad died. We're a family again. Her long, auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail, naturally curling down her back. I inherited my high cheek bones from her. Her skin is rosy and soft, so different from the ashy, sickly look she has now.

We're in the forest somewhere. A beautiful, wide-open clearing. There's a deer at the edge, and on my left is a bubbling stream. It's not all pine trees. There's an enormous willow tree in the direct middle of the clearing. It's sunny and warm but not overwhelming. My dad's setting out a picnic blanket and my mom is sitting on a wooden swing on a willow branch. I'm taking it all in, savoring the closeness I feel with them both.

"Turkey sub with avocado, lime juice, and pepper jack cheese," Dad yells.

"Mine!" I reply, taking off in a jog towards him.

"Here you go kiddo," he says, ruffling my hair.

"Dad, stop it," I laugh.

Mom gets up off the swing and starts walking towards us.

"Henry, dear, I love you, but you better hand over my food."

We all laugh as Dad finishes passing out the sandwiches, strawberries, and lemonade. But all good things must come to an end. Overhead a storm begins to brew. Dark clouds battling against the sky. The wind picks up, slapping my newly braided hair into my face. The tree limbs are bending to the point of snapping. The sun is covered in a dense mist. The shadows are growing, drawing themselves out into larger, scarier images. The light is fading into nothing. Mom frowns. Dad smiles.

"The dark can change so many things."

His phrase sends shivers down my spine. He seems to be changing himself. His smile turns sinister, stretching further along his face. His scars seem to glow in the dark air. Mom turns to me and whispers, but the wind is too strong to hear her. I'm on feet now, the food long forgotten. He's still changing. Some of the scars are cutting open again and new flesh is separating. There's blood running down his arms and face. Some of it dripping onto his nose. Then I understand what my mom has been saying: RUN.

I take off into the trees, wind slapping my face and stray branches cutting into my skin as I run passed them. The dark can change so many things.

The dark can change so many things.

The dark can change so many things.

IT'S COMING.

The bushes rustle directly behind me. I sprint faster, my lungs trying to take in air as my heart tries to keep pumping. You're going to die. You're going to die. You're going to die. But this is all a dream. My dad died eight years ago. Whatever this is, it isn't real. And yet, I can hear it gaining on me. Set on my location before I'm even sure of where I'm going. You're going to die. I can hear my heart hammering. BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM. My sheets are soaked with sweat and my head and heart are pounding. I can hear my mom cussing up a storm in the next room. She dropped something. That's what woke me up, and for the first time, I can say I'm glad she doesn't care about how loud she is being. It's four twenty-six in the morning and I know there's no possible way I'll be able to go back to sleep.

At five thirty I hear my mom roll over in bed, mumbling to herself, and one word is very clear, "Henry."