It was one of those dreams, where she felt like she was falling. Plummeting toward the ground, unable to slow, unable to right herself, unable to scream, and uncertain of what she was falling from. It was a long free fall, she felt like she had only ever been falling, and all she would ever do was fall…
She gasped, feeling like she had just crashed into the ground. The mattress creaked beneath her, she had moved as she woke. Her ragged breathing started to settle as her mind caught up with her; it had been a dream. Just a bad dream.
She reached over to the other side of the mattress, feeling for the comforting presence of her husband. She sought for his hand, his arm, to hear him mutter sleepily as she rolled into his embrace. But she found the other side of the bed cold, lacking an impression of his body, the sheets still made up.
She curled her fingers in the sheets, twisting the soft fabric in her hand. His side was open, barren. His side was cold because he had not been there. Not for several weeks.
Her heart skipped a beat, and then raced to try and make up for it. Her breathing clipped, returning to the horrible shuddering gasps from when she first woke. Her mind tried to pull back from the realization.
He was gone.
It was like reopening the wound. Like everything was fresh and bare before her once again. He was gone, the bed was cold, she was alone in the large bed for two. She was alone in their bed.
Tears started to sting at the backs of her eyes. Uncontrollable emotion in the middle of the night, she had managed to control herself for so long. It was only a matter of time before it became too much, before the realization hit her again and flattened her.
Roughly she scrubbed at her eyes, rubbing the tears away before they could run down her cheeks, before they could stain her pillow, before they showed that she was still unable to handle this.
She took a great shuddering breath, closing her eyes as she lay in the bed, pulling the blankets up tightly around her. The sheets still held his scent, though it was slowly leaching into the room. Soon they would lose his smell altogether, there would be no reminder of his presence in their bed. She breathed in the lingering scent of her husband, imagining that it was still as strong as it had been the last time he had lay beside her.
"Please," she whispered into the deafening silence of the room. "Not tonight."
It had seemed like one of those dreams, where she felt like the ground had given out beneath her feet and she landed hard. It had been a physical blow, one that had knocked her to her knees and stolen her breath. It had felt like a part of her had been taken, a piece of her had shattered, now there was only a gaping wound that was slow to heal.
Some nights were worse than others. The nights with the free-fall dream, the nights she woke reaching out for him, the nights the memory of him overpowered her control. The nights when she called out were the worst of them all.
"Not tonight," she begged as the memory of him washed over her. His smile, the curve of his lips, the way his hair fell to cover his eyes, the way he stood, the way he held her and wrapped his arms around her protectively… "Please."
Her door creaked open, a thin trail of light fell over the wall, crossing the foot of her bed.
Quickly she scrubbed her face again, lifting herself up on her elbows to watch the small figure totter in the room, pulling a filthy blanket along on the ground. Golden hair shown like a halo in the light from the hall around the small face, as the little boy stopped beside her.
"I had a bad dream," he reached up to her. His cheeks were tear streaked, and red. He had been suffering from bad dreams too, shattered by the loss of his father. "Momma," he opened and closed his small fists repeatedly, asking for help to join her in the mattress. He was still too small to climb in the bed on his own, though he was quickly out growing that.
He looked so much like his father, it hurt to look at him. The little boy was a small copy of his father, from his crooked grin to his golden eyes, though her son had never chipped a tooth. But she could not turn him away, she could not dismiss him. She sat up, and pulled the little boy in the bed with her.
The little boy curled up in her lap, allowing her to hold him closely. He hugged his blanket as his mother rocked him gently. So many nights they had spent like that, so many nights they had sought comfort as the ground continued to fall out beneath them.
"I miss daddy," the little boy muttered quietly, his golden eyes falling on the vacant side of the bed, where he knew his father was supposed to be.
"Me too," she took a deep breath, trying not to cry. She hated to cry in front of the little boy, she hated to show that she was weak. They were held to a higher standard; they were better than to be so controlled by the loss. But it was hard to maintain that high standard after the nightmares.
It was like the nightmare where they were falling, and falling, and falling. For months they were falling, just waiting for the jarring moment when they would wake up, and find it was just a dream. All they wanted was the moment the dream ended.
But this was no dream. He was gone and he was never coming back. They knew that, they were well accustomed to harsh realities. But they still hoped, prayed, for the moment they learned that it was all a dream.
It was the dream where she was falling. Plummeting toward the ground, unable to slow or stop, unable to wake up, until she crashed into the ground. It was a free-fall, and it continued to envelope her, to numb her senses while she was trying to wake herself up. She felt like all she had ever done was fall, like that was all she would ever do.
"Me too, baby. Me too," she held the last piece of her husband close to her, ruffling his golden hair, and kissed him gently.