Classes dragged, and I was ready to go home by the time classes were over. Thank God for free Friday's, perks of J&W, and the approaching holidays.

As I drove home, I made a mental list to write down when I got home. I had to prepare my Thanksgiving care package for the Marine I was adopting. His name was Jacob Black, and he was 20 year old from La Grove, Washington or some where far away like that. They all blurred, every year it seemed.

I was also making a list of ingredients I had a home for dinner. I was planning on making French Gougères, chicken francaise with artichoke hearts, and chocolate cream pie for dessert, three of my father's favorite things. He was spoiled when it came to food. Not only could he cook, but so could I. Not everyone is so lucky.

I pulled into my driveway, grabbing my bag as I shut my car off, stepping into the muggy heat. So much for seasons in Florida. I was humming to myself as I grabbed the mail, walking toward the front door. There was a bunch of ads, and things for my dad. Nothing for me, as usual. I sighed, shoving my key into the doorknob.

I always checked the mail, always looking for something for me. There never was anything for me. Secretly, I knew what I was hoping for, something from my mother. It never happened, not even a birthday card. A girl could dream, couldn't she?

I dropped the mail on the kitchen table with my car keys, leaving my bag on a chair as I walked into the pantry, leaving every thought I had behind me.

That was the beauty of cooking, I didn't think about anything except what I was cooking, and how I was going to improve it. I spent a lot of things thinking about how to make things better, how maybe a little sage would complete it, or maybe a little more butter. You couldn't go wrong with butter, or cream, and all their artery-clogging goodness.

I grabbed the flour, olive oil, sugar and cornstarch, leaving them on the counter as I opened the spice cabinet, grabbing what I was in the mood for, but for once, my mind was elsewhere.

It was on Jacob Black, as I wondered who he was, what he was like, what he looked like. I did this every year, before Thanksgiving and Christmas. I'd always sent a carepackage and letters, letters that never got answered. More mail I always looked for, more mail that never came. It made me unhappy, that these soldiers never responded to my letters, that they never thanked me. I know they were thankful for the package, but it hurt my feelings that they forgot their manners. I hoped Jacob Black would write back, just one simple thank you, and I'd be happy. My purpose would be worth it.

I smiled as I thought of this, walking over to the fridge, finally able to focus on cooking. I gathered the rest of the ingredients I would need, lining them all up on the counter, starting with the chocolate cream pie first.

By the time I was done with the pie, I ended up digging my iPod out of my bag and plugging it into the dock that was mounted onto the wall. The sound of Michael Buble filled the kitchen, and I sang along to Save The Last Dance For Me.

I danced back over to the counter, my lips moving along with the song as I started the chicken francaise. I finished dinner by 6:15, and I was thrilled.

I showered slowly, taking the time to wash my hair, and to wash away the day. It'd been a long week, I was ready for some recuperation.

I dried off and got dressed in my pajamas, disappearing back downstairs to eat dinner alone. My father had called earlier this afternoon about working late, after apologizing profusely. Dinner was our thing, always sort of had been. I didn't mind though, instead, I brought my laptop with me to the table, and tried to focus on writing my letter to Jacob. I felt...inspired, even though the none of the words I wrote didn't seem to sound right.

I sighed, shutting my laptop, shaking my head as I finished my dinner. I put the left-overs away before putting the dishes into the dishwasher. I decided on a slice of pie and walked into the living room. I sat down on the couch, turning the TV on as I took a bite of pie. I flipped through the channels, but found nothing. I pulled up the DVR and decided to watch one of the episodes of American Horror Story that I had missed.

After sitting through two hours of the gruesome show, I took my plate to the kitchen to wash it. It was already a little after nine, and I decided I was going to go to my room. I left a note for my father on the counter, disappearing to my bedroom.

I curled up in bed with Things I Want My Daughters To Know by Elizabeth Noble. I smiled contentedly as I opened the book to chapter seven, my eyes scanning across the page hungrily. When I was another 20 pages in, I felt the urge to write, to just grab a piece of paper and to write. I sighed, trying to push the urge away as I read a few more pages, finally unable to focus.

The words were eating at me, and I huffed as I stood up from my bed. I grabbed my notebook, opening it to the first empty page.

It started with Dear Jacob, and my hand flew. It flew across the paper like wildfire spread through dried brush. My hand ached as the words poured, surprising me.

I felt such a…draw to this Jacob character, even though I didn't know anything about him. I knew I was just drawn to words from a piece of paper: "Jacob Black, 20 years of age, Marine, E-4." Maybe it was just his name. It had reminded me of Joe Black, and Jack Black.

I laughed at my own observation, thinking of Death with the humor of Jack Black. I shook my head as I shut my notebook crawling back under the covers. I shut off my lamp, closing my eyes, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I was walking, wondering, through foggy darkness. I glanced around me, my visibility shrouded. I knew this had been a bad night for this.

It was cold and the ground beneath my boots was hard.

"Do you copy?" The voice said in my ear, I growled, ignoring it.

The metal of the gun was cold between my fingers, my grip tightening.

I could hear them, their feet shuffling against the dirt of the desert, their voices hushed.

Not this time.

My vision clouded, anger pulsing through me as I got a clear view of them, the night vision of my goggles registering their every movement.

They had no idea.

I pulled the gun up, releasing the safety as I made sure the silencer on my rifle was in place.

"Black mamba to Undertaker, code 6." My voice was harsh, rough. It wasn't my voice.

My finger went to the trigger, my lips moving, no words escaping.

I couldn't hear as the rifle kicked back, rounds firing quicker than I could think. I shut the world out.

A force hit me, tearing through my left shoulder, but still, I gripped the gun, watching as a bullet met every target.

I watched as they fell, trying to block out the pain, but I couldn't anymore.

I was gasping for air, I couldn't breathe.

I'd felt pain before, but nothing like this. This was different, this set every nerve ending in my body on fire.

Then she was there, as my surroundings started to fade to darkness, her eyes glowing intently, watching me, a sick smile on her lips. Her white teeth were gleaming.

She was so familiar, I knew her. Who was she?

"Olivia," Her voice was too sweet, sickeningly sweet, I felt the vomit crawl up my throat, "Livvi,"

I was going to be sick.

"Livvi, Livvi baby, come on," This voice was urgent, but gentle.

Sleep faded fast, and my eyes flew open.

I was in my bedroom, I was safe. It was a just dream.

I collapsed back down on the pillows as I gasped, inhaling the air as my heart raced. I was sweaty, even though my bedroom was freezing.

"Are you okay?" My father's voice was worried as he stared down at me from the spot he was sitting in next to me.

I nodded, my fingers tracing over my shoulder, the fading phantom pains still lingering.

"I had a very vivid dream." I whispered, my voice hoarse.

They were getting more and more so, these dreams.

He reached out, smoothing my hair, "Want to talk about it?"

I shook my head, "I don't remember it."

I lied, closing my eyes.

Truth was, I was hoping to forget it.

"I'll make you some tea." My father smiled weakly, getting up from my bed.

I smiled as he left, leaving the door open. Tea was my father's answer for terrible colds that kept me up until the butt-crack of dawn and nightmares, it always had been.

I shoved the covers off, following him down the stairs quietly.