Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Author's Note: Because I feel like Maya has been the ignored child. Good luck ignoring her now.
She turned ten last month, the big 1-0. No longer a little girl, she was now a near adult. They let her walk to the park alone with John and Michael, issuing hushed commands to keep an eye on the boys, you're in charge. They stopped going over all of her homework, saying she was old enough now to know that's her own responsibility.
And they stopped checking on her in the middle of the night, peeking in at her sleeping form, at times entering and perching on the side of her bed, rubbing a warm hand lightly over her back. When she was little she would kick her covers off, even if it meant curling into a tight, tiny ball to keep warm, all to ensure that when her mother or father looked in on her, someone would have to come and tuck her in again.
Sarah knew she was awake, always somehow knew, no matter how well Maya acted the part of sleeping little angel. She'd pull the blankets back over her, up to her neck and shoulders, and then reach out with long, lithe fingers, lightly tickling her throat with their tips. "Go to sleep," she'd say after eliciting the sought after laughter. There were times she said it, low and light, almost a whisper, a breath pushed out from smiling lips – because somehow she could just sense her mother's smile – even without tickling or tucking her in, or doing anything to prove she was awake. It made Maya wonder if she said it every time she entered her room late at night, just in case, even if she truly was asleep.
If Sam ever knew she was faking, purposely slowing her breaths, working to keep her lids loose and limbs tight, he never let on. But her father was like that sometimes, horrible at keeping the fun secrets, an awkward smile or convenient aversion of the eyes always giving him away. But somehow truly adept at keeping certain information to himself. When the girls planned a special Mother's Day breakfast for Sarah one year, which Sam decided was the sweetest, cutest thing ever, he walked around all day with I know something you don't know practically oozing from his pores.
But, a couple of years back, when Maya punched a boy at the playground – which she had no choice about, mind you, he'd been throwing rocks at John – she spent the entire evening thinking she got away with it, nothing about either of her parents' demeanors showing any knowledge of the event. Until it was time for bed and Sam had looked down at her after kissing her forehead, with a gaze she couldn't quite place, somewhere between fear and pride, guilt and amusement, and he said, "Violence is only ever a last resort. Understand? Last resort."
And so it was that propensity for giving nothing away, that mysterious, hard to read, to interpret way of her father's that made it all the more exciting when she was afforded the opportunity to feign sleep in front of him. Because she may actually be fooling the old man. And all the more meaningful too, when he'd gently swipe aside the hair from her face, run a rough thumb down the length of her cheek, her jaw. Because if he really thought she was asleep, then he wasn't doing it for her, he was doing it for himself.
But all that had stopped months ago, late night trips to check on sleeping babies gradually waning, growing further and further apart as a lack of necessity, a sense of complacency began to grow over the last couple of years. Which is why, though her father often kept hidden the things he knew, and she was sure her mother could do the same if she were so inclined, Maya was fairly certain that her parents were entirely unaware of her awful dreams.
They started just a few weeks before her birthday, short snippets of things she didn't understand, events she'd never seen happen. Then they gradually got longer, fuller, people she vaguely thought she recognized before becoming full flesh and bone in her mind's eye.
Her father. Her uncle. Younger and stronger, lean and tall, despite being so often, too often, bloodied and bruised. They were children at times, laughing and playing in the back of that old car her Uncle Dean kept in his garage, a stern looking man with a hint of a smile in his eyes, watching from the front, gaze flickering back and forth between the road and his children in the rearview mirror. She'd only ever seen two pictures of her Grandpa John, both showing someone far too young to be a grandfather, far too happy to be this man she saw in her dreams. But it was him none the less, of that she was sure.
The sight of monsters in these dreams often scared her. Quick moving things bursting out from nowhere, behind a cave's rock wall, or a dense group of trees. Some were tall and lanky, thin limbs moving in a blur to strike. Others were heavy or hairy, like a huge dog, or a wolf, blood and saliva dripping from their teeth. She'd wake with a start, sweat plastering her hair, her clothes, to her clammy skin, a sick feeling prickling in her gut.
But somehow she was never as afraid as she thought she ought to be. Somehow she knew, though often waking before all the events unfolded, that her father and uncle, grandfather too, had done away with the beasts, killed them all.
True, the monsters and ghosts and things she couldn't even identify may have been frightening in their own way, but the worst dreams were the ones that held no villains at all.
There was the time she saw her mother, easily recognizable since, according to her uncle at least, she never seemed to age, sitting at the bedside of an older woman. Crying. Grasping the woman's hand as though it were a lifeline, as though, should she let go, they both might fall away into nothing.
"Don't go, Mama," Sarah had said, high pitched childlike voice that made Maya want to turn and run, never acknowledge, never again see, that version of her sad and broken mother.
She'd watched as her uncle tore apart his cherished car, beaten the dark metal again and again with a rage and sorrow that terrified her for days, weeks, following. Looking into Dean's so often smiling face and trying to reconcile it with that other, trying not to see how it could ever be, ever have been, contorted into such a pained grimace.
She saw her Aunt Ava wake in the middle of night, confused and scared with blood on her hands and a man, dead, in her bed. She listened as Ava screamed out in grief-filled agony, followed along, as though in quick motion, as that grief turned to vengeful desire, to near sadism. Her aunt called upon a shadow to kill a man, to kill her father too. And then she herself fell dead.
That was the first time Maya woke with a scream, hearing it fill the air of her room before ever feeling it rise up in her throat. Normally she could quell the urge to cry out at what she had seen. She could keep herself still, forcing her head back to the pillow, guiding her wide eyes around the room in an attempt to show herself, look, you're here, you're home, you're safe.
It was only a dream.
There were too many times she'd wanted to bolt from her room, burst in on her mother and father, cry in their arms as they soothed away her fears, chased away all the images. Of long dead relatives suffering in silence, of people she loved being brought to their knees in pain, in fear, in death. But she was too old to need her parents like that. She was too proud, as her mother would have said.
She told them she was fine, when they rushed into her room that night, Sam first, on full alert, his swift and purposeful movements looking so like that young man from her dreams. She said it was a nightmare, as she snuffled back the tears, worked so hard to keep from letting it all loose as they gathered her in their arms collectively, wrapped themselves around her so fiercely, protectively.
"What was it about?" he mother had asked with sweet concern. "What happened?"
"I don't remember," she replied, wishing it were true.
She had a feeling Sam knew then. The look he gave her in the dark of the room, so worried and aware. The way he rubbed her back, not soft and soothing like usual, but rough and urgent, as though he were trying to scrub the dream away. As though he knew that the dream needed to be scrubbed away.
But then she fell asleep again, this time her mind a blank, sleep dreamless, and when she woke the next morning it was as though nothing had happened. There was no mention of the harrowing ordeal as everyone rushed to get to school and work on time.
This morning was different though. This morning no one rushed anywhere, and not simply because it was a Saturday either, because half the time the weekends are more hectic than the rest of the week. This morning something was up. And she knew why. Because last night's dream had been the worst to date. And she couldn't get it out of her mind, couldn't talk herself into believing it was only a dream, not real, just another nightmare. She couldn't keep herself from crying in that cold dark room, sobs wracking her body to the point that she hadn't even been aware of her parents entering, hadn't even noticed them lowering themselves to her bed, hadn't been able to acknowledged their voices as they begged her to tell them what was wrong.
She was too old, and too proud, but even so, there was no way to keep herself from falling apart, from falling into her father's long strong arms and tugging, grasping, gripping so tight around him, sobbing into his chest as she strained to hear the steady bum-bump of his heart beating. Just to be sure.
Because last night she saw her father die.
When she woke this morning it was late, nearly ten, though she'd had a soccer game scheduled for eight. She guessed her parents decided it was best to let her skip it, the first sign that something was terribly off. Because they were always preaching to her about responsibility and not letting your teammates down, never letting her out of practices, let alone games, despite constant whining and attempted excuses.
The house is quiet as she shuffles downstairs, knowing that even with her teeth brushed, hair back, and clothes on, she looks like hell, eyes so puffy they're nearly swollen shut, skin red and blotchy. It occurs to her that one reason for the quiet is that Rachel's probably already left, this Saturday being one of her special Uncle Dean days that no one else is allowed to attend.
Maya and her uncle have their own days too, just the two of them, when they go to the movies or the park to play basketball, maybe soccer. They're fun, she always enjoys them, but somehow she knows that her days with Dean are really just a ruse, a placating gift to keep jealousy and curiosity at bay regarding his time with Rachel. Because she's always been certain that whatever they do on their special days, it's not just playing in the park.
Once she even had a dream about the two of them, shooting empty soda cans off a fence. Rachel, a bit younger, was laughing between tugs on the trigger, Dean standing behind, cheering her on, smile flashing joy and pride.
She takes the stairs slowly, proceeding with caution, though she's not sure why. There's a familiar roiling fear in her stomach, just like the one she gets before parent-teacher conferences, when she knows news of her poor grades will result in no TV and extended study sessions.
But this is different, they wouldn't punish her for this, would they? For having a nightmare and being scared? Sure she was too old to cry like she had, waking them from what was likely a restful sleep, disturbing them in the middle of the night. Maybe they didn't take her to her game because they were too tired, and now they were waiting for her downstairs, exhausted and crabby, disappointed in her for being such a baby.
But when she enters the kitchen, they don't seem angry, both sitting at the table hunched over cups of coffee. They look up at her, Sarah offering an unconvincing smile as she says simply, "Hey there."
"I thought I had a game today," Maya says, because it's all she can think to say. Beneath the table she glimpses her father's long leg bouncing and she realizes they've probably been up for hours, sitting and waiting and drinking too much coffee. Her father always drinks too much coffee when he's stressed or worried.
"We thought you could probably use some sleep," he says, voice slow and deep. "After last night."
She doesn't know how to respond, so she simply doesn't.
"C'mere," her mother says softly, inching a chair out for her in between the two of them. "We want to talk to you for a minute."
She stands utterly still, deer in headlights, though she's unsure why. They don't look angry, only concerned. And she said we want to talk to you, not we need to talk, universal code for you're gonna get it.
"Maya," her father says, low and commanding. And she goes to sit.
Sarah reaches her hand out and starts to rub long strokes down the length of her daughter's arm, but Maya pulls away roughly, the eye roll that's become so inherently a part of her flickering as she bites out, "What?"
And Sarah draws her hand back, face and posture falling visibly at being so spurned. Because Maya's always been more independent, but her shrinking away still feels like a low blow, especially when she was only trying to help, only trying to ease whatever pain was so obviously eating at her little girl.
"What happened last night?" her father asks, ducking his head into her line of vision so as to ensure that their eyes meet.
She shrugs absently, turning away.
"Okay," he drawls as he leans back in the chair. "What's been happening?"
She doesn't intend to give anything away, the surprise at hearing that he knows something has been going on, but her head snaps up violently, eyes wide, even if only for a moment, before she drops her gaze and shrugs once more.
"Honey," her mother says, which is strange because of all the kids she's the one least likely to be called something like that, as though everyone could just tell from the get go that she'd never put up with any pet names or terms of endearment the way other children did. "Your teacher said you haven't been focusing in class, that you've even fallen asleep a few times," she says in a light, concerned tone.
"I have not," she spits out vehemently, even though it's true.
After certain dreams she can't bring herself to go back to sleep, sometimes simply staring at the ceiling for hours, willing the sun to rise. But no one was supposed to know that. No one was supposed to notice how tired she'd been, how difficult it was to concentrate. She'd tried so hard to cover it; they all should have been fooled.
Sam looks at her thoughtfully before saying, as though he'd managed to read her mind, "Something's bothering you. Stop trying to hide it. Whatever it is. Just stop."
And again, without even thinking, she retorts, "I'm not."
"Stop lying," he says in such an ominous and imposing way that she can't help but be taken aback, his tone just that harsh.
No one's ever called her a liar before, not really, not like that, and the mere fact that it is her father accusing her now causes tears to well in her already prone eyes.
"Did something happen?" Sarah asks, voice breaking slightly at the end, as though if something had it would signal the end of the world.
"No," she mumbles, wet, swollen eyes, aimed down, staring at nothing.
"You've been having nightmares," Sam says, a statement of fact that she neither confirms nor denies. Then, in a more gentle and…pleading voice than she's ever heard come from her father's lips, he asks, "What happens in the dreams?" And more urgently, "What do you see, baby?"
And there it is again, a pet name thrown out for one of only two reasons she can imagine. Either they know nothing and their worried, scared, for her. Or they know everything and neither of them can bring themselves to say her name. Because Maya is their daughter, their youngest girl who likes to play sports and sucks at school, but still tries really hard.
And she is nothing but a freak who has awful dreams about things she's never seen, yet knows are real.
She doesn't want to be that girl, the one who watches people she loves suffer and die, night after night, every time she closes her eyes. She doesn't want to have the dreams at all, or forgo sleep just to keep them at bay. She doesn't want to disappoint her teachers by not paying attention in class, or her coaches and teammates by not being able to keep up, being too tired to even really try. She doesn't want to snap at her sister or her cousins out of pure fatigue and frustration. Or look at her uncle and aunt, or her mother and father, and try not to see all that she's been shown over the last couple of months. But most of all she doesn't want to be someone who her own parents don't even recognize.
And right now, they're looking at her just like that, like they don't know her at all.
"Nothing," she says, strong and final, as she chokes back the tears. "They're just dreams. I don't see anything." She rises from the table, feeling Sam's hand slip away from her back, though she hadn't even realized he'd set it there. "Nothing happened. Nothing's wrong," she almost yells, so eager to make them believe.
But they look at her just the same, with a sad sort of shock and confusion that she can't stand to see. So she turns quickly on her heal, nearly toppling, tripping over her own too long legs, and bolts up the stairs, two at a time.
She locks the door and leans up against it, rocking slowly as she lowers herself to the floor, wills herself not to cry. She fails miserably and eventually lets the hot pulsing thrum of her blood, the cool hard, grounding, wood of her bedroom floor, work together to lull her to sleep.
And she dreams of fire. And of blood, more than she's ever seen before.
There's a heat so intense it prickles her skin as though singeing every hair on her body. But she can't see where it's coming from, the whole room seemingly engulfed. For a brief moment she thinks she hears voices, panic-filled shouts. Go. Run. But the crackle and hiss of the fire is so loud, she can't be sure.
Then, all at once the room blanches and cools, flames being sucked back up into neat blue walls, the sound of a baby cooing and gurgling being the only slight respite from the otherwise eerie silence.
She had always been off in the periphery of her dreams, merely a set of eyes watching as events unfold. Not this time.
This time she feels a presence behind her, like breath on her shoulder. And when she turns to look, she sees a man she's never seen before, yet somehow recognizes. A man with yellow eyes that seem to speak all on their own. You're mine, they say to her. You belong to me.