Author: writingmyownhistory PM
"Tonight is different, maybe because it's darker or I'm just a huge wimp." Meg comforts Sarah after a nightmare. Post-movie.Rated: Fiction T - English - Family - Words: 952 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 4 - Published: 09-24-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6350014
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Darkness has a life of it's own.
Maybe I'm the only one who notices.
But things haven't been the same in this house for a long time now. I mean, I'm not saying I know how my bedroom's supposed to look at night. I never got the chance to find out, thanks to some crazy old dude who kept his life's savings in the one place criminals aren't supposed to access.
They shouldn't want to.
But three people did. Because of their greed, I almost died and my parents could have lost their lives as well. It's hard to think about - had just one thing changed that night, I wouldn't be lying here afraid to sleep, thinking thoughts that choke me.
I have two nightlights now.
I don't need them. I'm almost twelve. I shouldn't be afraid of the sudden disappearance of light.
But I'm not afraid of the dark.
I'm just afraid of the things I have to remember when I close my eyes.
I haven't truly slept in a week. I don't want to sleep. If I sleep, I dream.
If I dream, I forget what really happened and what didn't...
The warning comes a second too late.
I hear the click of the gun being cocked with agonizing clarity, almost in slow motion.
But I'm not blessed with blindness or a dream-death.
I'm forced to watch as my parents both fall to the floor, killed by the same shot. Though the little knowledge I have of guns tells me this is hardly possible, as that thief wasn't a skilled marksman, it still terrifies me.
There's so much blood. Too much, too fast, a crimson wave that soon becomes all I see behind my closed eyelids.
The lone bullet finally clatters to the ground, falling into the puddle of gore.
I scream myself awake, immediately rolling over to muffle the sound of terror, letting it die in my pillow.
It's the same routine every night. There's a nightmare much like this one, a dream sequence where I watch my parents die.
Usually, I can calm myself down. But tonight is different, maybe because it's darker or I'm just a huge wimp.
There's no way for me to stop the tears. They drip down my cheeks in streams, pooling in my lap, and I can't stand the idea of being alone for another second. Sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I take off running down the hall.
My mom's door is still ajar, as it's been since the break-in. There are times when I get so worked up, my blood sugar plummets and I need different medications. I think she knows it's caused by fear, but she hasn't talked about it. We both want to forget.
I can't forget. I can't ever forget the night I was imprisoned in my own home. It was the worst night of my life, even worse than the night before I was diagnosed - when my blood sugar rose off the charts and I spent the whole night throwing up before my parents realized something was really wrong.
Homes are supposed to be safe, this one especially. That's the ironic thing, the funny thing.
Except it's not funny at all.
I stop in front of the door, wiggling my toes against the wood floor. I try to breathe deeply so I can at least sound normal.
It doesn't work. My voice breaks and she practically jumps awake, looking panicked. I can't blame her. The last time I woke her up like this, I barely made it down the hall before I passed out and whacked my head on the doorframe.
There's quiet shuffling as she slips into her bathrobe and walks into the hall, kneeling so she can see my face in the light. I probably look like a sweaty ghost.
Casper the Friendly Diabetic.
She knows better than to ask if I'm okay. "What's wrong?"
When I don't answer right away, she practically breaks my wrist trying to grab it and visibly pales.
I burst into tears, out of nowhere, sliding to the floor under the weight of these sobs I can't control.
Her arms are around me. The healthy side of me cringes in embarrassment but the dizzy, scared side just wants to stay like this forever.
"Sarah..." She sighs and stares into my eyes, her gaze soft and hard at the same time. Comforting the way only a mother's eyes can be.
"You died," I manage to squeak, "and dad died, and there was so much blood..."
She kisses the top of my head, pulling me into her arms and standing up. I don't protest as she carries me back to my own room and awkwardly sits on the bed, trying to balance our combined weight.
"Your blood sugar's low," she says, concern wrinkling her forehead as she hands me a bottle of orange juice.
"Mom." I unscrew the cap with shaking hands and peek at my wrist. 56. Stupid nightmares. "I'm not stupid, okay?" I drink half of the bottle in one gulp.
"I know." There's the faintest hint of a smile on her face. "It's a mom thing."
"Then I'm never having kids."
"That's my girl."