Dandelion

Reliving the Nightmare

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Good morning, Journal.

Alex and I fell asleep last night watching one of the Harry Potter movies. I'm not entirely sure which one. The first, I think. Maybe the second. There was a big snake at the end, so it was the second one.

I think Alex said he had to go to the store today, so I'm going to be by myself for about an hour. That time seems about as good as any to talk about my nightmare last night. Maybe if I write it like a story it won't be quite as bad. . .

Who am I kidding, this is going to be hell.

Alex had been right, as usual, when he'd said my father was the one who put me in the hospital. It had been his fists, and I was about to have to suffer through the event again.

I pulled out the dream journal I kept, flipping it open to the next clean page. Clicking my pen a few times, I dated the page and started writing.

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The dream started when I woke up in my old bedroom. The one in my father's house. The first room with buttercup yellow walls, and the white trim. Everything was exactly how it had been before I moved out. I could hear my father shambling drunkenly down the hall, and I hurriedly climbed into my wardrobe and shut the doors. I kept my breath as quiet as I could, and I heard him eventually go into his own room and slam the door shut. I flinched, and I decided to stay in the wardrobe for a little while longer.

When I crawled out, I was in the room at Alex's parents' house. This was where the memory actually started. It took me a minute or two to realize where I was, because the colors of the walls were so similar. I heard Bree in the living room. She was turning the TV on, turning up the volume so she could hear the local news over the sounds of her making dinner. I could hear Alex playing the guitar in his room, probably tired from his last day of fall classes. Exam week had been kicking his ass, and he'd been needing more time to himself than he normally did.

I sat on my bed and listened to the playing downstairs, half-audible words floating through my closed door. There was something about a fire in the neighborhood, and I got up to open my door so I could hear better.

When the address was announced, I felt my heart drop to my feet; no matter how far away I moved, I would never forget the address of the house I grew up in.

I went across the hall and knocked on Alex's door, and when he came out, he had his shoes on and his keys were in his hand.

"You ready to go home?"

I shook my head. "There was a fire at my old house," I told him. "I need to go check it out."

Alex was silent for a while, then he looked down at me with a deep frown on his face. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, but I have to do it anyway."

"Can I go with you?"

I smiled sadly at him. "I'd rather he not know about you. The last thing I need to do is give him more ammo against me."

Alex's frown deepened. "At least let me drive you over there."

I patted his arm. "Only if you drop me off at least one street away." He opened his mouth to speak. "And," I continued, "go home once you drop me off."

"What about you, though?"

"I'll just walk back here afterward. I'll call you as soon as I'm on my way back. I promise."

Alex drove me to the corner of my old court, and I hopped out of the truck and walked down the sidewalk, a deep feeling of foreboding settling itself into my stomach. My mind, which had learned what peace felt like in the last few months, told me to run, to go back to Alex and say forget it, my awful father could deal with this on his own, since it was probably his own stupid fault.

God, I should've listened to that instinct. . .

I walked up to the crowd of people, and I asked around the group made up of my old neighbors, trying to figure out what had happened. I learned that the general consensus was that somehow, my father's alcohol had been ignited, exploded, and lit the house on fire. I thanked the people I talked to and shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to make a quick getaway before the one person I never wanted to see again found me. I would've been safer if I'd stayed in the crowd.

When I was walking down the street, a rough hand grabbed my arm and yanked me around. I remember seeing my father's face, beet red and tensed with fury, and that was the last thing I saw.

I came to just slightly to someone shaking me. I couldn't see their face, but they had short brown hair like Alex's. I groaned his name once or twice, but I was hurting too bad to stay awake anymore. I tried to smile comfortingly at the person who looked so much like my Alex, but I have no idea if it even looked like a smile. I don't know who they were, but they saved my life, and I am incredibly grateful.

I woke up four days later in the hospital, after Alex had spent two days doing nothing, and one full day writing me letters and a song. I can't get away from this bad dream, because it isn't a dream; it's a memory.

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I can't escape the nightmare