Checkmate

1. Birthdays and dreams

On the chilly March morning of my seventeenth birthday, I awoke from the same dream I had experienced every night since a young age. The same dream coming to me whether I felt happy or sad, ill or healthy. In the dream, I ran and danced through the trees of an island, leaping from the branches like a cat onto the moss of the forest floor. I jumped from boulder to boulder without slipping and leaping from them to swing on vines through the canopies of the forest.

I always ran toward something rather than from it, and more often than not, I made it to my intended destination before waking. I used the nearby obstacles and foliage to advance my speed over the ever shifting terrain of the forest floor. This dream appeared to be no different as I leapt from the last boulder and straight into the arms of the man I knew to be my father. He caught me easily, to hold me high above his head and swing me around, his laughter echoing through the surrounding jungle.

Not many dreams turn to nightmares, some remain happy and calm, some may even turn weird. But the dream of mine always ended on a sour note no matter the circumstance. Every night, I dreamt of that place, that memory. And every night it ended the same. I would spend time with my father, roasting things over a fire or dancing to faded music. He would always embrace me tightly as if to bid me goodnight before everything became cold as the sky darkened above us.

Before I can ever process the change, I am whisked away as my father lay dying. He would reach out for me and call my name with his final breath as a figure stood beside his fading body, the glint of the blade responsible in its hand. I would always fight, but the tight grasp of the shadow figure carrying me never let me fall.

The flight always felt cold; the air stinging my face as my tears streaked across my face. In my dream turned nightmare. The shadow always left me on the same doorstep, giving me a pointed stare before flying away. I always wake with the shadow's eyes glaring into my soul, a warning that it would one day be back for me.

That morning, I awoke with a gasp to watch my mother walking into my room with a small cake, unlit candles scattered on the top. Her eyes were wide as she crept to the foot of my bed, smiling her famous smile. "I couldn't find any matches, but I am sure we could pretend." I couldn't help but match her expression as she pretended to light a match and hold it to the invisible candle. "Deep breath and blow."

"You aren't going to sing this year?"

She tilted her head as her brows raised. "Do you want me to sing?" I shook my head and grimaced. "You have always hated having that song sung to you. It was cheesy Carmello that one year, wasn't it?" I released a giggle, but still cringed at the memory of the actress and her flat notes.

Mother always knew how to make me smile ever since she found me on her doorstep. Despite our lack of blood connection, she had loved and raised me like her own daughter. Her husband at the time revealed his fury at the scandalous rumours circling the street and demanded she take me elsewhere, renounce me, or leave me to die. Unfortunately for him, my mother's childhood had taught her to be strong, meaning she refused to be controlled or even spoken to in such a way. She held me close, demanding to the entire world that I remained forever hers. Her husband left her shortly after, but she never missed him.

"He always reminded me of... " But she would never finish the sentence. Instead, choosing to shake her head and smile. "We're glad to be rid of him."

My mother always raised me to be as true to myself as I could be, with some exceptions. She delighted in my passions, but with every new hobby, I was to learn one of her choice, looking back, I remain grateful she had insisted. When I wanted to dance and took ballet lessons, she would always make sure I learned a few lessons of archery or fencing. When I wanted to add gymnastics to the list, she agreed with the condition that I take up swimming or self-defence.