Dreaming
I'm not afraid of dying, or spiders, or heights; I'm afraid of dreaming. My dreams are never new, they're just memories. Knives, driven through me, saturating themselves in my blood, bringing nothing but pain.
When I dream, I'm eight years old again. The winter air bites, attacking my exposed cheeks. The garbage, strewn across the pavement, brings a stench to my nostrils. I watch my breath become mist, taste the brisk air as it pours into my mouth. I should feel cold, worried, but I don't. I feel warmth, projected to me by the people on either side.
Mother is tall in her heels, her blonde curls hanging over her shoulders. Her crimson lips smile down at me, washing any insecurities away. She takes my hand, holds it; I don't want her to let go. The pearls around her neck, shining in the white light of a nearby lamp, catch my attention. Father really does know how to pick a gift.
I look to my left, where he joins my mother and I. His jet-black suit hugs his muscular figure. His hair, black like mine, is combed to the side, a few strands suspended over his forehead. He smiles, too. His smile is different to Mother's. While hers is kind and comforting, Father's is proud and confident. He always says, "You'll be a hero someday. The whole world will look up to you, including me."
Father leads Mother and I down the alley. I can't see the end, for most of it is curtained by shadows. The wind picks up and Mother pulls me close. Father goes on, but stops soon. I look ahead and see a man emerging from the darkness. He doesn't say a word, but he raises his hand. It looks pointed, jagged, and I realise he's holding a gun.
Father puts an arm up, offers the man his wallet, but he doesn't take it. He looks ready to pull the trigger, when I pounce. Like a cobra, I lurch forward, striking the nerves in the man's hand. The gun hits the pavement with a dull thud. I latch on, twisting the man's arm until I hear the pop of his shoulder dislocating. He screams and tries to flee, until I silence him with a blow to the temple. He isn't dead, but he won't be using a weapon again.
Mother and Father swarm me, embracing me in arms I haven't felt since. At this point the dream changes. The same events go on, up to when the man reveals his gun. I don't do anything this time, I just watch as Father falls, a hole through his heart. Mother does, too, her pearls skating across the pavement. I don't have time to react as the third bullet leaves its chamber and I join them, my blood mixing with theirs, our bodies together.
I don't wake up in the afterlife. I don't wake up with my parents. I wake up, alone, in reality, roused from a lie. A dream that will never come true.