[MAX]
Everything was burning. Orange flames climbed in my vision, the walls and ceiling were eaten away by dancing tongues that reached ever higher—
In the distance I could make out what I remembered was Mom's silhouette. Her back was to me and everything glowed in the angry light. The fire was everywhere, smoke clogged my nose—
I could see when Dad's form ran toward Mom, saw his hand touch her shoulder, and then there was a deafening boom. Everything was, white, and hot, and they were gone, gone, gone— and all I could do was scream.
I jerked away from Dylan so fast that I accidentally threw myself off of the couch. I realized what was happening right before I hit the ground, and somehow managed to make my landing a quiet one.
In spite of the fact that my instincts screamed at me to get up and get out before I woke anyone up, before anyone could notice, I remained motionless on the floor.
My gaze may have been on the ceiling, but I saw nothing but the remnants of shadows and flames. I was sticky with sweat and felt hot all over; my hair was matted against my forehead, and my heart pounded in my ears. It felt like I was suffocating, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
It was one of my nightmares that occurred more frequently. Since I had been a kid, since an FBI agent had been dispatched to inform me of my parents' deaths, I had nightmares of the event as it had been explained to me. In the dreams, I was always watching, and could never do anything. Sometimes how the explosion took place changed. Sometimes I could see flashes of my parents' faces.
But it always ended the same.
I wasn't quite aware of how much time passed, but eventually I managed to get my breathing under control. Only then did my instincts to escape finally win out.
The walk from the Carmichael's basement to their kitchen was one I could have done in my sleep. I made my way to my usual barstool in the dark without a hitch.
A single bulb dimmed to its lowest setting hung above my stool. All I could bring myself to do once I was seated was stare at the darkness that lay beyond the bar in front of me.
Eventually familiar footsteps padded up the stairs. My ears pricked at the sound, and I knew who it was without even having to look up.
I didn't move when Dylan came into the kitchen, and my only response when he placed a warm hand on my shoulder was to slump over further onto the counter with my head in my arms. I could feel him sigh through his hold.
He squeezed my shoulder gently, then released me and sat on the barstool next to me. His calloused fingers pushed my hair out of my face and brushed what he could behind my ear before he leaned onto the counter, too. He was turned toward me, and he waited for me to look at him.
I took a few minutes to oblige. When I did it was a subtle shift. My head tilted his way, and a few stray hairs fell back over my eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep. His eyelids were heavy and his hair was a mess. There was a sleep line down one of his cheeks.
"Yes," I murmured through dry lips. I closed my eyes. The cool granite of the counter felt nice against my skin.
"You sure?"
In any other situation I would have scowled at him. As it was, I didn't answer right away. "No."
I could feel his eyes on me. That was the only reason I pulled back from the counter and forced myself into an upright position. I opened my eyes, and when I did I found myself staring directly into his; familiar and compassionate in an expression that I knew was reserved for me.
Dylan followed my lead and sat up before he leaned against the back of his chair and slung an arm over the back of mine. "Do you want to talk about it?"
My jaw clenched and I looked back off into the abyss of the dark kitchen.
Normally, Dylan would push me to talk. We both knew that. Dylan was stubbornly different from others I was close to — he didn't give in. He'd fight against me day and night if he thought it was for my own good.
But he never pushed when it came to my nightmares.
How was I supposed to explain those? How do I explain that my mind haunts me with visions from a terror I wasn't even there for? At least when they were from traumatic events I had actually endured, I could make sense of it. But even then, when my nightmares were born from experiences I'd had, I was reluctant to talk about them.
Dylan was one of the very few people privy to the existence of my nightmares, and he was the only one who I'd ever shared any of the contents of said nightmares with. He'd picked up on my sleeplessness when we were teenagers, but didn't ask me about it outright until we were a little older. Given that when he did finally ask, it came immediately after one of my more horrific nightmares, I didn't see the point in lying to him. Ever since then, if he was around he kept tabs on me. He didn't force me to talk about them, no matter what state I woke up in.
The few times I did tell him about my nightmares, he comforted me to the best of his ability. He didn't push, he didn't give pep talks, he didn't try to solve my problems. He reminded me of where I was and what was going on and stayed with me until I was calm enough to go back to sleep.
He'd never told me he was keeping tabs on me, but I wasn't blind. And while in other circumstances I might've gotten mad about being "watched over," I didn't so much mind it when it came to the nightmares.
When I shook my head to deny his offer to listen, Dylan nodded his own in acquiescence, and we lapsed back into a more comfortable silence.
