05. It might be a matter of trust

Still in a semiconscious state that she could only chalk up to the pain meds, Leila wondered how she could have ever thought she wrote everything down. Her journal notes on the day had been scant; barely mentioning the strange events of the day, save for the last reflection. So much of what was playing through her mind seemed questionable, that if not for her muddled state she’d surely doubt any of it was real. 

Don't trust your dreams

She attempted to get up and felt her eyelids flutter as she was instead called back to what happened right after that first glance at the stranger in her dreams.

(still not quite) The events of October 24

She inhaled sharply and saw the familiar surroundings of her room. The tint of the blue coming in through the window, and the sound of a chirping sparrow nearby let her know it was close to dawn. A white, blocky alarm clock next to her bed announced with bleary green light that it was 4:36am.

Not yet. Yeah, I heard you that time. Not yet *what*, jackass?

Leila willed herself to stay as lax and easy-minded as possible. Overthinking could kill the images from the dream still latent in her mind.

He reminds me of someone, almost like he’s a character I read about. Elfish, for sure. Way too whimsical to be Tolkien, too regal to be Pratchett. He sort of fell somewhere in between I guess.

Leila gave up on sleep. Looking for meaning in her vivid dream seemed much more important than being rested. She stood from her bed, where the cold attacked her in a second. She had to remind herself that late October meant just that: warm afternoons and breezy evenings that invited everyone to leave their windows open. So everyone did. Then everyone woke up to frozen toes and sore throats. My toesicles! Leila whined as she shuffled around, scanning the floor with her feet for her slippers. At the same time she snatched the plush blanket off her bed and wrapped herself in it. She was aware of how comical she looked when she did this, like an upright burrito, so she indulged in the look every chance she got. This was just one of many things that she loved about cold weather.

She sniffled slightly as she covered the distance from her bedroom to the living room. After absent mindedly wiping her nose on the corner of her blanket, she snuggled into the oversized, brocade sofa and closed her eyes.

Surprisingly, the images weren’t becoming indeterminate fluctuations as they usually did. The emotional component wasn’t overpowering the sensory details of the dream. It was as clear as a happy childhood memory, the kind that can be recalled at the drop of a familiar tune.

That boy had been in her dream. She could be sure of that much. The reason was uncertain, but she wanted to communicate with him, more than anything else at that moment in time.

You look so familiar, and I have so many questions. I want to believe that you chose to come to me for a reason. Do I know you? Every time I tell someone I saw them in dreams they tell me they don’t remember seeing me in theirs. I’ve always wanted to believe it’s possible.

When Leila opened her eyes she felt an odd heaviness in her head. She assumed she’d been falling asleep again, but when she slipped an arm out from under her blanket to stretch she saw it leave a trail in the air. A pressure was building in her chest, and the air, the colors of the room around her seemed rare, askew. She tried to get off the couch but barely managed to get on all fours. There was something pulling her down from the inside, she couldn’t move. The sensation was one of dripping away, melting like a burning candle. She lay down and tried to cry, but nothing came out, no sound, no tears. Help, she thought.

“Hey!” the sound came from the love seat on the opposite side of the room. She turned and saw the same boy from before, sitting there in what appeared to be a three-piece suit made of some sort of purple lamé.

Don’t do it.

“Are you dreaming?” he said with spry inflection.

Oh, this is not

Fair!

The last word escaped her throat in a grunt that sounded more like a muffled “fuhr”.

Mental screams were a common thing for Leila. Being of the habit of censoring oneself on the daily did that to a person. At that moment, her mind screamed so loud and shrill that she thought for a second she might have cracked her skull.

What fresh brand of tomfoolery is this? A dream in a dream that may or may not be a dream? I think this day’s events might have been a little too much for me… for God's sake, what’s next?

She glanced at her bedside clock. 6:36am, it announced. There was no way her mother had fallen asleep, she’d probably forgotten to wake her up. Or maybe she hadn’t and she’d been dreaming so soundly she didn’t even hear her. Or she did and couldn’t even remember.

CRAP! I’m dead, I’m a corpse, lead me to my resting place. What the hell happened to me? Out the door, down the hall, run dammit, what’s going on, where is everyo… oh wait… it’s Saturday.

By the time she’d stopped her body and mind she was standing barefoot in her boxy pajamas in the middle of the foyer. The coffeepot was percolating in the kitchen, which meant her father was up and about. She looked down the hall and saw the door to her parents’ bedroom open, their bed empty.

Run back, you fool! Before they see you and make you clean something!

As she made the frantic tiptoe journey back to her room, the bathroom door at the end of the hall opened and her mother emerged.

So close, and yet so far.

“What? Did you fall off your bed?”

“Yes. I mean… I got up because I thought it was a weekday. Going back to bed now, I’m still really tired.”

Please don’t give me a chore; please don’t give me a chore…

“Well then, okay.”

Wow she’s too surprised to think of anything. Is my waking up early on a Saturday really that big of a stretch on the mind? I’m a little offended, honestly. Anyway, flee, Leila!

Leila turned on her heels and casually took the three steps that separated her from her bedroom door. Right then, her mother spoke up, “Oh, wait.”

I knew it, too good to be true.

“What’s up?”

“What time did Evelyn’s mom say she was going to pick you up?”

“Oh! Like, eight thirty I think?” As much as Leila had been blindsided by the days she appeared to have skipped via her dream, she instantly recalled that she was going to the beach with Evelyn’s mom and brother that day.

“Okay. Are you all packed?” In Leila’s mind, her mom was the only person who was able to produce a voice that was both terse in its intonation and staccato in its constant stress. Years later when she heard women speaking Japanese for the first time she would come to relate their inflections to the way her mother talked. Everything she said had a sense of urgency that sharply contrasted with a general bearing that leaned on the side of calm composure. Lola’s game of contrasts unnerved her young daughter, although never as much as her father did.

“Yeah, packed last night, actually.” What are you planning, Lola?

“All right. Just don’t forget the laundry I asked you to put away last night. It’s still waiting for you in the laundry room.”

Yep, there it is.

“Yes, mom. I’m just gonna sleep a bit more then I’ll do it.”

“Better take it to your room now so you don’t forget.”

How does she manage to sound like she’s raising her eyebrows without raising her eyebrows? Also, thanks for the trust, ma.

Leila forewent an answer and tromped back down the hall and around to the laundry room. The whites, of course it’s the whites, mom knows I just love folding fitted sheets and pairing socks.

 She carried the lopsided cloud of linens and clothes back to her room, and then backtracked to recover a couple of rogue socks. She deposited everything in an impressive, stable pile on top of her dresser and crawled onto her bed. When she was centered she let her arms and legs give out under her and plopped onto the cool surface. Her plush blanket was there, pushed to the side as she had left it when she jumped out of bed. The left edge was still tucked against the wall.

She grabbed the sheet, foregoing the blanket, and wrapped it around her body, tucking it under herself as snugly as she could.

The feelings were still raw and close. The emotions in her chest were a witch’s brew, a contrivance of elements she had never known to coexist. It’s been bubbling so much you can’t tell one thing apart from another anymore. I just know the end result hurts scares and intrigues at the same time. And it’s exciting, appealing… but some of it is also repelling, like something in it is setting off my flee response. All she could do now was while away the time until she could talk to Evelyn.