Lighter

t w o

i've grown familiar with
villains that live in my h e a d . . .

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Mornings at my house have always been pretty normal, I'd say, at least for the state my family is in. They're sort of the only time when life seems normal. It's almost like a dream. If I have an early class or I'm up in time, I'll eat breakfast with my dad and my younger sister. My Aunt Farrah buzzes around the house mumbling incoherent complaints before she heads to work. My dad takes my sister to school, then he goes to work himself, and I'm left at home to either get homework done, binge-watch TV, or go to class, depending on the day.

Mornings are nice, and I like them. The only thing I don't like is when I've just barely opened my eyes and I'm already thrashing around my sheets, crying out in a desperate attempt to bring my mother back to life.

Any image of her raven hair and striking green eyes vanished, when I finally came back to reality and saw an apprehensive Cheyenne sitting on my bed. Her dark, thick brows were furrowed and her hands that were previously squeezing my shoulders ceased their tight hold. She was trying to wake me up.

My chest heaved as we stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Then a single tear rolled fast down my cheek and in an instant, she pulled me up and wrapped me in her arms.

"It's okay. I'm here now," she spoke softly, stroking my hair as a way to calm me. I just nodded my head and pressed my lips together to try and refrain from letting anymore tears fall.

The TV continued playing whatever infomercial that was currently on, serving as merely background noise compared to the ringing in my ears. I glanced over at my window and saw sunlight filtering through the blinds, making shadows on the wooden floorboards of my room. Cheyenne didn't say much, which she knows by now is the only way to put up with me when I've been brutally woken up by yet another nightmare.

"Why won't they stop?" I rasped when I managed to find my voice. I felt her hold me a little tighter, only staying quiet without an answer to my question. "They haven't been as often, but they always come back just when I think they're gone for good."

That's the thing about me – my nightmares come and go as they please. It's not like every night since my mother passed, I've been terrorized in my sleep. It was bad for awhile when it first happened, but as I've gotten older, they've been more sporadic. Now, it just seems like they happen whenever my brain wants to torture the living hell out of me.

"I don't know, Sav, but I wish they would," she attempted to appease me. Unfortunately, I realized a long time ago that no matter what anybody tells you, the thoughts in your own mind are far more powerful. Before you believe their words of advice, you have to believe your own. "Your heart is beating out of control, do you want a pill?" She suddenly asked me, pulling out of our hug and looking at me with utter concern.

I released a shaky breath and shyly nodded my head, which she nodded back to as well. With a small, sympathetic smile, she got up from my creaky bed and left my room for a moment.

My witty, frank, savagely honest best friend who is almost as unbalanced in life as I am could truly act like the older sister I never had.

As my gaze was fixated on my fingers resting in my lap, I heard her enter my room again. In her hands was the small, orange bottle holding my anxiety medication that I tend to keep in the bathroom. My dad trusts me, but he doesn't trust me enough to store medication in my room. So naturally, every night he checks to make sure it's in the cabinet in our bathroom down the hall – not that he has anything to worry about anyway because I would never be stupid with my medicine. I don't even want to take it in the first place, yet take too much of it.