Dear Stanley [Watty's 2019. Completed]

When you were here

Tuesday, March 19th

Dear Stanley,

I had the nightmare again.

It's 1 in the morning. I still feel the fires warmth, still smell the burning corpses.

My eyes are bleary and I feel a tear sneak out. I don't know why I'm crying. I'm trying to stop. The paper is stained with tears now. I'm sorry, Stanley.

Bad thoughts are rushing into my mind and I'm trying to clear my head of these nasty images,  the images of the blood and the fire - Stanley I just want the nightmares to stop.

I remember whenever I woke up from a bad dream, I'd always go and wake you up too. The dreams would be silly, nothing at all like the ones I'm having now. They'd be about cartoon monsters attacking me, something stupid like that. Yet I'd be panting with agitation, tears smoldering behind my eyes, and I'd wake you up no matter what the time was.

And you always woke up. You never told me, "Go away Nicolas, I'm trying to sleep!" Or "It was just a bad dream, it's not real."

You woke up and gave me a hug, not the ones that Mom gives, where she crushes your body until you and her are one being.

Your hugs were hesitant yet comforting. They were manly in your classic style. I remember you would clap me on the back whenever we hugged, kind of hard and kind of painful, but I never complained.

You'd ask me "What's wrong?"

And I'd tell you. I'd tell you everything that I remembered about my bad dream and you'd listen. You wouldn't space out, and your eyes wouldn't glaze over with fatigue or annoyance. You would listen intently.

Then we'd walk downstairs to the kitchen together, hand in hand. You'd make me a nice cup of your hot cocoa, the sweet yet bitter taste would balance perfectly on my tongue. It would melt all my worries away. We'd sit on the granite kitchen counter, drinking our hot chocolate while talking about stuff.

We'd always end up laughing by the time the last drop was in my stomach. You had that power Stanley, the power to make everything perfectly fine.

A smile is tickling my lips just thinking about this.

There is one nightmare that stands out to me the most though. Despite a majority of my dreams being about stupid matters that had absolutely no chances of occurring, I still got realistic ones.

I had a dream that my entire family died, even you, and I was standing alone in our home, wondering where everyone went, how they were here one second but gone the other. I remember feeling hopeless in that dream Stanley, because I wanted to talk to someone in it, but everyone was dead.

When you took me to the kitchen counter that night, while making the drink, I remember feeling especially sad, especially heavy.

"Stanley, will you ever leave me?" I asked, my voice tiny.

You stopped what you were doing, your hands in the middle of pouring the hot chocolate in the mugs. You were facing me. The dim kitchen light flowed over the heavy bags under your eyes, making them look a dark purple.

"Nicolas. Look at me." Your voice was commanding, like steel.

I did, lifting my shy eyes and forcing them to meet yours.

"I will never leave you. Ever. You understand that?" You said.

And Stanley, at that moment, I believed you. That night, 3 years ago, I thought that you wouldn't leave. I thought you and me - we'd always be together.

Yet, here I am.

I would relive those nights, those nights where I got those silly bad dreams over and over again. Even the parts where I was shaking with fear, the parts where my childish 11 year old self thought I was going to die because of an imaginary monster.

Because reliving those scary moments would mean I get to see you again.

But as always, reality sinks in.

I'm all alone and I've got to deal with it. I'm waking up from a bad dream and I don't have anyone to talk to. I don't have anyone to give me a hug or anyone to make me hot chocolate or anyone to replace my fear with laughter. Instead I'm writing to my brother who left me when he said he wouldn't.

I'm crying hard now, the tears are coming furiously fast. I am trying to blink them back, but it's useless, like trying to fit the ocean in my bedroom. The tears are falling and all I can think about is how you never cried, how the tears are turning the page wet, how ashamed I am that the tears feel so good.

I feel like each tear drop that falls off the bridge of my nose is one burden dropping off my shoulders.

I'm aware that I have school tomorrow, and that after ditching class yesterday I should probably get sleep so I can be more attentive today.

But going to sleep right now seems as improbable as the monsters I used to have nightmares about coming to life.

My bedroom seems to be suffocating me, and I seem to be craving to feel a cold night breeze on my skin, so instead of closing my eyes and waiting for exhaustion to overcome me, I slip a sweater on over my short sleeved t-shirt.

I opened the door of my bedroom and slinked my way downstairs, trying to not make any noise. Though I doubt my parents would care if they heard me. A little part of me wanted them to catch me so I can see what they would do.

But of course they didn't.

Once I was outside the house, I relished the calm wind that slipped over me. It washed away my tears, and it made me shiver just a little, even with the sweater on. But it felt refreshing, as if I was taking a cold shower on a hot day.

I decided to just sit down on the concrete front steps that lead up to my house, enjoying the peaceful night. The stars were out, looking like sprinkles of salt in a bucket of black paint. There was not a single soul in sight, the only movement was the rustling of trees and grass.

I loved it. Much to my surprise. That was the single moment where I craved to be alone. Craved to be alone in the night sky with the earth around me. And at that moment, my thoughts seemed to stop. My brain was blank. I wasn't feeling anything.

I was numb but it felt good.

I don't even know when I went to sleep, sometime when the sky turned into a cotton candy kind of pink, where the clouds were like puffy strings of sugar. I could see the sun start to rise, a magnificent golden ball of flames.

I wonder if the pain of touching those flames would be better or worse than the pain of you being gone?