My Nightmare
Prologue
Jared looks at me and I feel safe, and suddenly I don't care. I throw it all away. I'm kissing him before I know it, suddenly and desperately, throwing away the fear. I have no fear anymore.
The scream of rage is what separates us.
...Six Months Earlier...
Chapter 1 - We Are Not
I feel that hollow aching, and I welcome it. It is better than fear, I can't think when I'm afraid. Sam's smile is sad in her picture. Sam's smile was always sad, up to the very moment she died. In my head I picture Sam scowling at me. Oh look at that, I'm late for class. I can't summon the energy to care. I move away from Sam's glass case like someone would move away from a grave. When I finally get to class the teacher simply sighs at me. My crippling depression makes it hard for them to punish me.
"You're late again." Misty, Sam's other best friend whispers. Since Sam was murdered, Misty and I sort of stuck together. We don't fit in with the same crowd, but it fills a gap. She basically my only friend.
"What I miss?" I ask to humor her.
"Oh Kathy giving Ms. Quail a hard time. Nothing special." I glanced over at Kathy and fought to not make a disgusted sound. She had dyed her nappy hair black, and always wore a skin tight black outfit. She had lost a ton of weight since last winter, and now looked like a stripper half the time. She was almost worse than Brandon.
"Think I could sleep today?" I whispered to misty. She Shrugged.
"Looks like wer're just taking notes, so yeah." I promptly put my hood up and leaned back in my chair closing my eyes. Almost immediately the nightmares began.
"Braelyn..." It's always the same. I can hear someone say my name, sometimes it's Sam, sometimes it's Jared. I wander through the dense forest looking for someone. It's when I realize she's dead is when I start screaming.
Thankfully Misty shakes me awake, just as the gunshot goes off, before the screaming begins. The whole class is staring. Eleven months ago, that would have bothered me. Misty blinked at me, worried. I took a deep breath, trying to stand the fear, feeling that scream building in the back of my throat.
"I'm fine." I said just as the bell rang.
Our school is like a river, we the salmon, swimming to our deaths. I didn't feel like a salmon, I felt like a leaf, flowing with the thrashing current instead of against it. I didn't hate my school, but it's blinding cheerful nature was going to make me go nuts sooner or later. I stopped at Sam's memorial shelf, located between the trophies, like her death was an achievement. It sure did get the school a lot of press and money. They sold her like they sold yearbooks, cheaply dramatized and incredibility overpriced. They made her seem like such a victim. She didn't deserve to be called a victim. She was stronger than that. Someone stood beside me. It was Misty.
"She wouldn't want us to dwell." Misty said, green eyes focused on Sam's sad smile. I barked a soft laugh.
"No, but she wouldn't mind, if we didn't cry." Misty tried for a smile, but didn't get very far. Sisters in agony were we.
"God we're depressing." I muttered, touching Sam's pendant lightly. I never took it off.
"Let's go visit Cynthia." Misty said suddenly.
"Right now?"
"Why not? They think you're nuts and unstable. Plus I can have my mom call me in." I thought about it and was about to decline, when I glimpsed Kathy, pinning Brandon up against the wall, kissing him. My stomach churned.
"Fair enough." We walked from the school without the slightest care.
After Sam's funeral, tje rest of Sophomore year had been spent in weeks of zombie like clips, antidepressants and daily trips to my school shrink. Last summer was three months of binge watching television shows and never going outside for anything except visiting Sam's mom. Because no matter how lost we all felt over Sam, her mom was the one who had lost her daughter. Now, when school was fresh and I was the biggest story, Cynthia Yeskis was my only escape.
Sam's mom was on the couch as perusal, hooked up to a heart monitor and her own person air supply. Her sad smile was bittersweet to me, but I sucked it up. With Sam gone, Cynthia had to hire a nurse to help her around the house and with medication. The nurse was fitting Cynthia with IV when we walked in.
"Shouldn't you two be in school?" She scolded.
"When have they ever been known to follow the rules?" Cynthia said with a smile. I hugged her.
"Never. We're rebels." I said. Cynthia laughed a bit. Misty sat in the arm chair by the window and I sat on the floor by Cynthia's knees.
"Are you going back to school?" Sam's mom asked. I shrugged.
"Depends on if it's worth it I guess. Not much point now. I get my homework." It wasn't a lie. My teachers sent my homework home in the mail and I get it done. Tests were done online. The on;y reason I went to school in the first place was to pay my respects to Sam's memory and get away from my fear. If I stayed home during the day, his letters, opened and screaming on my desk, would drive me nuts. The worst part was my mom. She avoided me now, but before, she wouldn't leave things alone. I was never alone, never allowed out past dark, and was always asked if I was okay. One day I finally snapped. I told her flat out what had happened between me and Jared, that I loved him. Now at least she didn't look at me in pity. Now she didn't look at me at all. It stung, but I could handle it. Just then the door opened, and in came Brandon. My rage almost enveloped my ever present fear. Almost.
Brandon glanced at me and looked frightened. I held his gaze until he looked away and went to hug Sam's mom. Spineless bastard.
"Seems everyone is slumpy today." Cynthia laughed over Brandon's shoulder. He stood up.
"Nah, it's my lunch hour, I just popped in to say hello." Misty was openly glaring. I tried not to care. To me Brandon was nothing but a bitch, a spineless, cowardly ginger bitch who knew nothing about loyalty. It had been almost a year since Sam's death, and yet he had gone after Kathy at her funeral. Speaking of Kathy, I could see her outside in her car. She was not permitted entry in the house. Brandon looked for a place to sit, his eyes lingering in me. I met those blue eyes and raised my chin, slightly challenging him. His adams apple bobbed. "But Kathy is waiting, I should probably go. Love you mom." He said with another hug. When he was gone Cynthia sighed.
"That boy is a bitch." Misty choked on a laugh and I smiled. "Honestly, he has never fought for a thing in his life." I frowned.
"No...he hasn't." I agreed. Cynthia's look was sad.
"Welp, I better go, mom's making pork chops tonight. See you tomorrow. Love you mom." Misty said, hugging us both.
. . .
It was dark and sprinkling. The water made me cringe.
"Do you want to spend the night tonight?" Cynthia asked when our tv show went to commercial.
"Sure." I said, knowing my mom wouldn't even notice my absence. I slept in the blood stained basement, where Sam's room was a draft that I could handle. I spent more time here than I did at home, home being poisoned with questions and blaring silence. I would rather be here, where my fear cannot touch me. I kiss Cynthia on the cheek and head into the bowels of Sam's home, knowing that while her bedroom makes me sad, it also makes me remember her with a sad smile. Here, in the threshold there is no door, but a blanket with a skeleton on it. I can touch the worn fabric all I please before pushing it aside and entering her space. A single lamp exists, bright and casting shadows. Pictures are everywhere, all of our friends, her family, her dog. Here she is with her mom, smiling widely, no sadness in it. Here is a picture taken two summers ago, when I had my first taste of alcohol, our eyes are bright with laughter.
"She was happy." I say it like a prayer. The blood spots on the concrete floor say the opposite. Her journals and unfinished stories scream from the shelves, and I resist the urge to read one. Instead I go to my favorite picture. This was a picture I took, one that I placed among the rest. It is a picture of Sam, sitting on her bed writing, brow furrowed in concentration. I love it because she is in her room, not stiff with headache or sadness, it reminds me that she once sat here, cried here, laughed and slept here. She had been real, and alive. I crawled under the covers, but did not turn out the light. Sam never looked the dark. Neither did I.