House of the Damned

The Third Dream

Twelve

The Third Dream

“You look awful,” Michael says.

I narrow my eyes at him. “That is not how you should start a conversation.”

He’s right, of course, but that’s not something I’m going to point out. I’m exhausted. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three nights. I haven’t had food or water in two days. I’m dizzy and my head is pounding. Even though I didn’t have another dream last night, I still couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of the two dreams and everything my mom and Kate said. It doesn’t make for good rest.

I rest my forehead against one of the shelves we’re cleaning as the room spins. I groan in irritation, closing my eyes.

“You okay?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “It’s not your fault though. Can’t sleep.”

“So go back to bed. I’ll finish up here.”

“No,” I reply quickly. I open my eyes again and ignore the throbbing pain in the back of my head. “No, I have to keep working.”

“Why? I’ll be fine on my own.”

I shake my head, instantly regretting the motion. “Venus just needs the slightest excuse to punish me further.”

He sighs. “I wish she wouldn’t do these things.”

“Just don’t piss her off and she won’t have to.”

I grit my teeth and try to stop the room from spinning. It doesn’t quite workout, but I feel less nauseous. Not that that matters, there’s nothing in my stomach for me to throw up.

“I’ll try, but I think it’s inevitable that I will make her unhappy.”

“Probably,” I mutter and conversation drops between the two of us. I stumble through the work the rest of the day, thinking it’s a miracle that I don’t screw anything up. Michael practically carries me back to my room once we’re done and I’m grateful for the help, else I probably would have collapsed in the hallway.

I stare up at the ceiling for the umpteenth time and a sigh escapes my lips. If I could just get one solid night’s sleep things wouldn’t be half as bad. Granted, I’d still be thirsty and hungry and shaky and dizzy, but I wouldn’t be about to collapse from exhaustion on top of everything.

My eyes drift shut and once more, I’m dreaming. I sigh again and resign myself to the fact that I am clearly not meant to sleep anymore.

Warm brown eyes and a bright smile greet me. Short, chocolate brown hair tops the head of his kind face.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, taking a seat, my seat, at the table. Once again, the house I grew up in has been recreated, but this time we’re in the kitchen. The warm yellow walls and gorgeous mahogany cupboards have been recreated perfectly. The marble countertops gleam, shiny and new again like they were when I was six. The tabletop is still filled with all the cuts and chips and kinks that were there the last time I saw it.

My father takes a seat, his tall frame no longer towering over me.

“How’re you doing, Cassie?”

I shrug. “Been better. Been worse, too.” I pause a moment before blurting the question that’s been stuck on my mind. “Why do I keep dreaming of you guys?”

He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes are the saddest I’ve seen them in my whole life. “Because you need us, Cassie. Kate came to tell you not to kill yourself. Your mom came to tell that you’re not crazy and we’re not wrong.”