[Angela]
Years passed and we were wrapped in our blissful little world. Anne appears sometimes in my dreams, a young toddler now. I cried every time as I cradled her in my arms, kissing her soft little head and rubbing the chubby cheeks that smelt of warm milk. She was safe, warm and happy. That was all I could ask.
A few nights later I dreamt of my days as a child. In the past, whenever something unpleasant from my childhood appeared in my dreams, nothing good happened. The last time I dreamt of my father beating me up, Anne caught the disease two days later. The ominous feeling crept into my heart as I involuntarily relived the dream.
She forced herself to swallow her dinner of hard bread and butter. Tears flowed down her cheeks as her father accused her of horrible things she would never have done. A rose petal fluttered from the vase of handpicked wild roses towering above her hunched form.
As she gulped down the last mouthful, not tasting any flavor, she grabbed the petal and headed for her room. Her father's last yell of accusation was more than she could bear. She flung the crushed petal in a shriek of rage and misery, storming the last few steps into her room and shutting the door as hard as she dared behind her.
The first drops of rain pattered on her windowpane as she threw herself onto her bed and sobbed into the pillow. Lightning flashed and thunder roared, but she was grateful for the mutual fury they shared. The clouds were raging for her when she could not. For once not caring if her parents heard her, she howled miserably, the sound muffled by the pillow. Her tears left behind dark spots and streaks of emotion.
She hated this. No one understood. Nobody knew how unhappy she felt inside.
The storm slowly subsided and she felt calmer. She was weary, all her energy spent on screaming and sobbing. Numbness came over her and she rubbed her puffy eyes hard with her tear-stained knuckles. She rubbed until they were red, swollen and sore.
I hated those dreams. They made me hate my parents. When I woke up, and realized that they weren't here with me anymore, that my last words to them before running away was "I'm not coming back until you wake up and see that I love this boy." They never went to our wedding, though they sent half-hearted cards of blessing. Well, at least I had something. I wanted to tell them I was sorry, that I loved them, but it's too late. I would probably be talking to a cold stone at a graveyard. I hate those dreams because they made me miss them; they made me feel terribly guilty.
I tried to push away the nagging sense of unease as the day continued. If Patrick noticed, he hid it pretty well. He knew I had days when I wasn't myself. He probably figured out pretty much when I gave a deep answer to Charlotte's simple question. He brought her out so I could have some alone time. I appreciated that.