Promises are always meant to be kept; Mother had always told me that. When it was just the two of us, anything could come up as a topic. There was no embarrassment, or hesitation, bred from the leery eyes of judgment around us. I was seven, and I asked why my friends cried when I said I had no father. Mother said that he simply didn't want to stay. He left. Simple. What was also simple was the promise that came afterwards: as long as she lived, she would never leave me. I find myself reflecting upon this particular conversation often, question my obsequious fawning over my mother day after day. Other say it's unnatural for a girl my age to be so connected to her family, unwilling to burst out the door the second I'm free. Is it because in those quiet little apartments, it was only us, and it's hard to leave the person I love the most some days? Or maybe it's because reality- the outside world- is a sick place, and it terrifies me because I am too clean?

Maybe. Mother isn't clean enough, so she's been infected. It manifests itself as a florid red, or tears, or a mood shift, all from a little teeny tumor in her body. I wanted to be a doctor one day so I could save her, but I can't cut precisely, or wrap my head around the more difficult aspects of biology. Doomed to failure, I guess, just another prophecy fulfilled. The prodigal child returns home empty.

Inside my somber room lies an illuminated screen, sitting on the desk next to my bed. I'd attempted to lure Somnus to my bed, only to lie rejected, in and out of an exhausted consciousness. Well, until my laptop pinged- hadn't I shut it earlier? Maybe not. Couldn't seem to remember much lately. It's almost too much to slide to the bedside and retrieve my laptop, claw it off the desk and read the message on the lilac chat box.

Taylor: Are you awake?

No, I'm obviously asleep. Too sleepy to act irritated at this point, though, but thank god I possess enough mental capacity so I don't blurt out a nighttime escapade involving you.

Me: Sure. Can't seem to sleep

There. Generic enough.

Taylor: Me neither. Just finished an essay for AP Lit, mind won't power down. you?

Me: General insomnia. How was your day?

Taylor: Good, busy day at work today. Had a sale on meat. And your day, sunshine?

Me: Much better after talking to you. And after that ibuprofen.

Aha! Caught you. At least I didn't start something too embarrassing, like calling you 'dear', or 'honey'. I think my hints might have been too bold at that point, nor would you be able to reciprocate.

Taylor: That's great… Hey. Quick question.

Me: Shoot

Taylor: Well, I was wondering… Have you ever wanted to escape? Just…. don't have to livehere anymore?

Me: Lol. Well, yeah, I have. It's not like there's some magic portal, though

Taylor: Are you sure?

Me: What's this about?

Weird. Not like her at all to just bring this up out of the blue. Taylor needs concrete proof for anything she tries, not some freak on a blog telling her that sunshine and water will be her food on the path to enlightenment.

Taylor: There's this rumor going around school and work that if you sleep outside on a hill on a full moon, then your dreams will be more vivid.

Really? That's it? No voodoo rituals or other such drivel? I consider briefly just telling her that only the power of suggestion is at work here, but decide against it. We all need something to cling onto.

Me: Why don't we try it then?

Taylor: Excuse me?

Me: Pack up Espie and we'll both do it

Taylor: But how will I know if you do the ritual?

Well then. Never has she been quite this distrustful before. I've always done my best for her: been a good friend, lent an ear, made her presents- especially the Espeon doll she so adores.

Me: I promise I'll do it

God help me, I'd do anything for you.