yume

*content warning: physical violence/homophobic slur

Ever since I was young I can remember my dreams coming true. Not in the platitudinal sense, no, not at all — I’m speaking in the realistic sense, or what I suppose most people would consider the unrealistic sense. People would say that what I’ve experienced throughout my life is imaginary; but then, what is truth? They haven’t dreamt the birth of a sibling, then seen it come to pass exactly as envisioned, down to the smallest dark whirl of hair above the minutely asymmetrical ear of their baby sister. To be fair, no one in my family believed me when I told them either.

My friends didn’t believe me when I told them I had already broken my arm jumping from a too high bridge into too shallow water to impress a girl in eighth grade.

“Why would you do it if you already knew what would happen?” Johnny had asked.

“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t know I’ve dreamt it until it’s already happening.”

“That just makes it a false memory,” said Tessa, taking a hit from the puffy joint being passed around the campfire, our summer way of celebrating high school graduation. She exhaled, a thick cloud blocking her gaze from mine. “You’re confusing clairvoyance with deja vu.”

I imagined her staring at the dissipating cloud with the same incredulity I saw her staring at the weak ripples my broken arm made four years ago, wondering if I’d emerge alive from the froth. I learned then I’d never find a glimmer of admiration in those eyes. I focused my gaze on the pulsing fire.

“I dreamt my sister died.”

Johnny drew a vague spiral in the dirt with a stick he’d found. Tessa passed me the joint. Darius sniffed.

My family hadn’t believed me then, either.

#

I was six years old and eating Honey Nut Cheerios the first time I realized I had already dreamt reality. I sat at the table, my spoon whirring as I spun it languidly against the edge of a plastic bowl painted with pastel dinosaurs. A jay twittered on a delicate branch outside the kitchen window, then flitted away when a large black crow alighted on the windowsill. It crooked its head, an azure gem of an eye floating between horizontal white slats. Pinpricks cascaded down my arms; I ceased whirling the spoon. Cheerios settled in milk with a quiet burble. The crow opened its mouth and my alarm blared.

I awoke at 6:23am, took a shower, brushed my teeth, gelled my hair. I was hungry; Dad was out of town, and mom was already gone for work, so I made a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Their stale sweetness wafted up from the clinking bowl painted with pastel dinosaurs. I grabbed a clean spoon from the dishwasher, the minute engravings on its handle rough beneath my thumb. Sitting at the polished dining table, I considered the triceratops’ horns. My free hand rubbed across my brow as I crunched a hefty scoop. Horns would be annoying, I decided, and thus the triceratops could never be my favorite dinosaur. I considered the pterodactyl instead, began whirling my spoon along the edge of the bowl. A jay twittered on a delicate branch outside the kitchen window, then flitted away when a large black crow alighted on the windowsill. It crooked its head, an azure gem of an eye floating between horizontal white slats. Pinpricks cascaded down my arms; I ceased whirling the spoon. Cheerios settled in milk with a quiet burble. The crow opened its mouth and I was walking home from school, my backpack straps digging into my shoulders on account of the math book I’d lugged home from tutorials. Something about Algebra.

Along the street, a little girl was blowing bubbles to impress her parents in their backyard, rosying her freckled cheeks with exertion. Following the sidewalk further down the street, I lost sight of the backyard but could still see small iridescent bubbles shimmering in autumn’s early evening glow. Sepia and violet kissed my eyes and I walked the rest of the way in an unforced glee, staring at the sky, letting the colors wash over me as I anticipated the sunset. Inspired by such mundane beauty, I ran my hands through my crisped hair and smiled.

I had dreamt this walk.

The next day I sat at my little wooden desk at the front of math class, the metal bar connecting seat and table gleaming harshly beneath gridded fluorescent lights. I glanced up and saw Mr. Crenshaw, my math teacher, look away; his bald, fuzzy pate softened the fluorescent glare. A slight smile on his face. He was anticipating success after how well our tutorials went yesterday. His little smile encouraged me. When he passed the tests back a few days later I didn’t need to look at mine because I knew already that I was dreaming a dream and in this particular dream I received my test back, a splotchy red ninety-seven circled atop the paper with a smiley face and Mr. Crenshaw’s fastidious handwriting scrawled too-large with the phrase, “Great Job!” Instead I traced the muddy colors of the classroom carpet with my eyes, thinking about Honey Nut Cheerios and autumn sunsets.

At home, I showed my mom the test and her eyes widened.

“That’s the best you’ve ever done, sweetie!” Her auburn hair was pulled back into a low messy bun, and strands of her bangs decorated her sweaty brow, ornate like the sharp yet swirly fencing I walked by on my way home every day. Steam ushered from a pot on the stove, and I could smell the savory stew she was cooking mixed with pungent roasting vegetables.

“That’s the best you’ve ever done!” my sister, Janet, echoed, one hand gripping a plastic fork, another a plastic spoon, both held erect like magic scepters ready to summon her meal with a flourish, easy as producing a bunny from thin air.

“Thanks mom. Thanks Janet,” I said, tousling my sister’s hair.

“Don’t do that!” she yelled, suddenly angry with righteous six-year-old fury. Her brows crunched down, mouth puckered in contempt, and she raised the spoon hand toward me as though to strike.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, placing my hands in my lap.

“Better be,” she said.

“Look, what’s that?” I asked, pointing behind her so I could tousle her hair again. She turned, and though I didn’t intend it, she saw the crow on the windowsill, an azure gem of an eye floating between horizontal white slats and something in my heart sank: she wasn’t supposed to see the crow.

No, that wasn’t it — the crow shouldn’t have seen her. But it did.

I tousled her hair while she was turned away, and she rounded with her weaponized spoon flailing at my wrist while I laughed desperately.

“Leave your sister alone,” my mom tossed over her stirring shoulder.

Stew was served, and it was delectable. A perfectly cozy fall meal, replete with bubbling broth and steaming chunks of meat and potatoes alongside broccoli roasted with parmesan glaze.

“Where’s dad tonight?” I asked.

“He’s driving to Utah, honey. He’ll be gone for the rest of the week.”

“Oh.”

Janet blew on her stew to cool it, but succeeded instead in splattering it half in her bowl, half on the table.

“Not like that,” I said, moving to take the spoon — she drew her hand back, frowning. I sighed and brought my spoon over to her bowl.

“Germs!” she said.

I looked at my mom, and she smiled as she chewed. Her eyes gleamed with the same light that colored the sunset in my dream, then in my reality, and I knew then that she had received it too: that same beauty gifted to me from the autumn sky.

I felt a pang of guilt. I had thought that particular beauty belonged to me alone. But watching my mom chew as her children bickered, her eyes wrinkling beneath a lacquer of dry sweat across her immaculate brow, I realized I was wrong; I was selfish.

I knew then that beauty shouldn’t belong to anyone; that it lived everywhere. Especially in dreams.

My arm snapped beneath my body as I plunged into the water. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. The pond should’ve been deeper. Or maybe I was too heavy? I still hadn’t shed a lot of my baby weight for muscle like Johnny or Darius, hadn’t hit my growth spurt either like Tessa. I sputtered out of the water’s surface, scanning the bridge from which I’d jumped. Johnny and Darius looked horrified; Tessa, confused.

I thought she’d be impressed with me.

That’s right — I’ve broken my arm. I’ve dreamt this. This is a dream, but this time I think it’s for real. I look down at my arm, bending a way I know it shouldn’t, glowing red as wind whistles through nearly barren trees, spindling with winter’s cusp. Except for the one evergreen in the center of the copse lining the pond, where I see the crow’s azure eye. Pain washes over me, and I begin to cry.

#

“Let me sign it!” Janet demanded.

“Sure,” I said, handing her a marker.

She proceeded to scribble multiple oblong shapes: certainly not letters.

“Do you know what ‘sign’ means?”

“No.”

“Okay.” I leaned back in our family’s recliner chair watching afternoon anime while my sister drew what I later figured out were her favorite toy ponies on my cast.

“This one is Samantha, and this one is Conrad, and this one is Jalefogous,” she said later that evening after she’d convinced me to come play with her in her room before bedtime.

“What was that last one?”

“Jiminifer,” she said nonchalantly, prancing Samantha and Conrad across a blanket she’d lain across the carpet.

“I see.”

Large hands emerged from behind me, covered my eyes. They smelled of grease, steering wheel cover, and cheeseburgers.

“Dad!” Janet and I exclaimed in unison.

I turned and beheld him, a short, stout man in a stained short-sleeve collared shirt. Secretly I hoped I’d get my mom’s height, but I’d never tell him that. I just wanted to be at least as tall as Tessa.

My father compensated for his height with mirth. He smiled broadly, always.

“How’s the arm feeling tonight?” he asked, kneeling down beside us.

“It hurts some if I move it too much.”

“That’s good,” he said, picking up Jalefogous-Jiminifer.

“Why is Stefagranny on the ground like this?”

“Is that what she said its name was?” I asked, and we both laughed while Samantha and Conrad continued their prancing.

#

“Nice ponies, fag,” some thick-armed kid yelled as I walked by him in the hall.

“What did you just say?” Darius said, stopping to remove his arm from around my shoulder and creating a backflow of students rushing to seventh period.

“What” the kid said, stepping into Darius’s face.

“Darius, just ignore his dumb ass,” Tessa said.

“Yeah man, it’s not worth it,” I said, emboldened by Tessa. “I don’t think he can even spell any of the words he just said. Poor guy probably doesn’t even know what they mean.” A meaty fist greeted my face — the back of my head hit something hard and everything was blurry but my ears were full of Tessa’s screams and I could make out Darius’s strong figure pistoning his arm into something on the ground nearby. I lay upon the hallway floor, copper lining my lips. My vision sharpened and through the skylight above I could see the crow perched on the sill, its azure eye shining upon human violence with all the interest of a shooting star.

The next day I went to school, and Darius greeted me cheerfully. Tessa giggled profusely at some of Johnny’s crass jokes, and Darius put his arm around me in the brotherly way he loved to do, right before he’d slap my gut or tousle my hair.

Maybe I was like a little Janet to him, something innocent and vulnerable to protect. Who knows.

“Nice ponies, fag,” some thick-armed kid yelled as I walked by him in the hall.

Oh, that’s right — I’ve dreamt this.

Darius was gone, sent to Special Programs for a few weeks on account of putting that kid in the hospital. Tessa I think associated me with the whole ordeal and found it painful to speak with me, so she kept her distance. Johnny stayed close, but his eyes were always on Tessa, his jokes always for her. She never seemed confused when she met his gaze.

They circled each other tentatively up through tenth grade, then Johnny kissed her after a movie we all saw in our sophomore summer and they dated all through junior and most of senior year. After Spring Break, they had a big falling out. Johnny vented to me about it: they were going to college soon. They’d be across the country from each other, probably, and had their whole lives to figure out. He didn’t want to be tied down. There were so many women in the world, after all, and so few people stay with their high school sweethearts. It was just wishful thinking. Too romantic; she was always so romantic.

“You want to hit this man?” he said, his voice tight with the smoke in his lungs.

I took the joint and inhaled, and when I coughed I wondered if Tessa had that confused look when Johnny told her all this.

“I dreamt this,” I said.

Johnny cleared his throat, and his posture grew a bit rigid.

“Yeah man, I know you’ve always had a thing for Tess. Take it from me, there’s better girls out there, for sure.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh…sorry. You’re talking about that seeing the future thing. Like back in eighth when you dreamt about the fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “ a bit of a heads up would’ve been nice.”

Tall parking lot lights splashed upon the hood of Johnny’ truck, and slight condensation specked across the inside of the windshield. Perched on the top of his brushguard was the crow, its azure eye glinting, dispassionate.

“Maybe I’m dreaming this, too,” I said.

“Yeah man,” Johnny said, snatching the smoldering joint from my fingers, “maybe we both are.”

#

Jan died in her sleep.

I sat at the dining table late in my senior year, eating Lucky Charms. Pale tendrils of spring beech blossoms hung limply outside the kitchen window. It was a quiet morning; no birds sang. Jan must’ve slept in again. The transition into middle school was hard for her, and the combination of advanced placement classes, cheerleading practice, and a vibrant group of friends she seemed always at the center of kept her exhausted.

As I neared her white bedroom door, her alarm’s tone seeped into the hallway like a pulmonary bleed. I turned the brass knob, the door unlatched: Jan lay on her side, her back to me, sleeping without breathing. The window above her bed bestowed livid morning light upon the room; I thought of an autumn sky, of my mother’s smile, but I saw the azure eye and then I knew that beauty which hid everywhere had retreated from existence forever.

It was a gentle death, some offbeat and rare occurrence. Doctors wanted to cut Janet open to ascertain the cause of death, but mom was wracked with grief and Dad wouldn’t have it. We proceeded to burial sans autopsy, and as Jan’s coffin sank into the wet earth, I didn’t dare look at the portable pulpit the priest had recently vacated. I knew what was perched there, watching.

“Not now,” Dad had said when I mentioned the dream. “Son, now is not the time, please…not now.” He held my mom in his arms, her ample height drooped over him like a swath of grounded clouds, her bony shoulders earthquake-heaving. I remembered my broken arm, how it hadn’t really hurt at first.

Then it did.

#

“No one’s ever believed me about the dreams,” I said, observing shapes come and go in the campfire.

“I mean, yeah, it’s hard to believe man,” Darius said.

“Take the broken arm thing, for instance. Why would you do it if you already knew what would happen?” Johnny asked.

“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t know I’ve dreamt it until it’s already happening.”

“That just makes it a false memory,” said Tessa, taking a hit from the puffy joint being passed around the campfire, our summer way of celebrating high school graduation. She exhaled, a thick cloud blocking her gaze from mine.

Her and Johnny were trying again. Maybe I was wrong, Johnny had said. Life’s short, you know? Why let go of a good thing when you’ve got it. Proximity to death has a way of bringing things into perspective for people.

“You’re confusing clairvoyance with deja vu,” Tessa stated.

I imagined her staring at the dissipating cloud with the same incredulity I saw her staring at the weak ripples my broken arm made four years ago, wondering if I’d emerge alive from the froth. I learned then I’d never find a glimmer of admiration in those eyes. I refocused my gaze on the pulsing fire.

“I dreamt my sister died.”

Johnny drew a vague spiral in the dirt with a stick he’d found. Tessa passed me the joint. Darius sniffed.

I refused the joint, and stood. They all looked up at me. I kept standing, kept rising, up and up, and I watched Johnny melt into ichor and Darius’s jaw clatter upon the soil and Tessa’s eyes fill with a light I’d seen only twice before as I rose, my arms blooming with feathers, blue ice glazing my eye, a sharp beak escaping from my face as I began to glide through the serpentine campfire smoke, then finally fly away.