Dreams Are Only Regrets

TW: Violence, death, mention of blood

It was a sweet thing upon the morning light. Sweet with enough bitterness in its afterthought to nearly choke him.

She was there, holding that tiny thing with eyes too big for its face and hands smaller than his nose. They were happy, living in some small cabin only big enough for three. Everything too sharp or harsh was packed. Forgotten. Collecting dust. In truth, he knew he should've been amongst them, but here he wasn't.

Here he was cooking as she rocked her arms back and forth. Books scattered the shelves, papers covered the tables, large stacks of bound pages littered with her penmanship sat neatly arranged on a desk in their bedroom. This was peace, this was sanctuary.

That figure wearing the same hat he did that always haunted the corners of his vision, the back of his mind, was gone. Despite the sun streaming in through the windows, there were no shadows in the room.

"How's it comin' along?" she asked in that voice, sweet as trickling rain.

"Shouldn't be too much longer now," he replied.

"Ain't that what you said last time?"

They weren't so young here. So stupid. He certainly wasn't. And neither of them held such bitterness in their tongues. It was somewhat like the early days, but even those lacked such peace. He could never settle, and she could never let him go.

"Your ma and pa still comin' to eat with us tonight?" he asked, stirring stew in a large, iron pot.

"I imagine we won't be seeing them any time soon," she said, starting to make her way over to him.

She cradled the tiny thing in one arm and took his waist with the other, gazing up at him with piercing blue eyes. He took her in and could've melted right there, mixing with the stew.

"It's not like they're much company. Who needs them? I've got you, and you've got us right?"

He opened his mouth to reply. But it was already over. Awareness struck him like a bullet, and he was back on his cot.

With a feeling like lead in his chest, he crawled his way out of the tent and stood before his meager camp. His horse calmly stirred below the tree he hitched the reins to. His campfire had crumbled from its hours of burning. Air stuck to his throat as he tried to breathe reality back in. Not even a moment into the morning, and it was far too much to bear. How had it truly taken so long to discover the ache of his own being?

He balled his fists and swiftly took down the tent and kicked dirt onto the remainders of the campfire. He was on his horse and riding back east in mere minutes. Back to what he hoped was his dream.

The house looked different. Not by much. Perhaps it was the mere trick of infinite light within his perfect world clouding his memories. But there, in the bark of the tree just beside the house - the branches waning enough to shade half of the porch - carved clear as day, were the initials, "AM". Anabel Miller.

Like the fool he was, he had carved them for her on the day she took the house after her parents passed. He couldn't recall what his precise reasoning was. He had been so sweet on her, so sweet and so stupid. Too stupid to see past what he thought was only a detriment, not something that might bring them closer. It was almost funny now, how something so small could cause him such fear, such anger. He hated himself for it. Had felt that way then too, but his pride was a mighty set of chains to break.

He hopped out of his saddle and brushed off his pants, making his way to the front door. He took a long breath in. He hadn't quite decided what to say. He'd thought of only one thing the entire ride here, and yet, he had not a clue.

Something, he thought. Something is enough right now. My staying around will do the rest.

As he began to approach the front porch steps the door swung open. His heart stopped. His body froze in place. From the shadows of the house came someone all too familiar and yet totally strange.

He was larger than before, his build far stronger. His hair was thinning, though by the looks of his clothes, his pockets sure weren't.

"Hello son," said the man at the door.

There was a silence between them, thick enough to choke.

"What are you doing here, Pa?"

His father chuckled at the door, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. It was only now that he had taken in his father's presence that he could see the details around him again. The one most jarring to him now being the blood being wiped from his father's hands. His pistol was in his hand in seconds. His father only continued in his laughter.

"Now, now Wesley, I taught you better than that," his father said, walking out of the shade of the porch. Wesley backed up a step but held himself straight.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, grinding his teeth.

His father shrugged and examined the land. "Tying up loose ends."

Wesley's stomach dropped. His blood ran cold. He wouldn't. He couldn't. There was no reason, no gain from it.

"You're lying," Wesley said, his voice starting to break despite himself.

"Now boy, I have only ever spoken honestly with you. Why would I stop now when I've just gotten to be so proud," he said, walking closer to Wesley.

Wesley found his feet stuck to the ground again. He wanted to scream, wanted to drag his father to Hell, but he just stood. Before he could think, his father was at his gun. With a pointed, calloused hand, he gently pushed it down and was met with no fight. A stale grin crossed his father's face.

"It's in our blood, boy. This way of livin'," his father said, wrapping an arm around Wesley's shoulders. "I knew no matter where you ran off to after that little 'phase' with this girl that you'd wind right back up with us all the same. One way or another, I knew you'd come back. I'm just doing you the favor of taking one more thing out of your way back to who you are, boy. And by now, you must know there ain't no running from destiny."

Destiny. Wesley's eyes were flooded with his dream.

His destiny was standing before him dressed in the colors of spring, holding their daughter in her arms. Her destiny surrounded her: in family, in the books she wrote, in the house she helped raise from the dead. And now that was gone. Once more, the ruin of her designs lay in his hands because he was a coward. He was a coward not to have killed his father before they ran away. He was a coward not to have stayed after she gave birth. And he was a coward now, letting his father take his life into those crooked hands of his as he always had.

His father gripped his shoulder tighter and began leading him back to his horse. "Now, I've got a plan, boy. Our camp ain't too far from where we were when you ran off to play family." His father broke into a fit of laughter once again. "My lord it still gets me just thinking about it. Ain't no other family matters besides this gang of ours. Least I know you won't be makin' such mistakes again."

I've got you, and you've got us, right?

Wesley's feet stuck in place. His father was forced to stop. He furrowed his brow.

"What's the matter with you, boy?"

"You're right." Wesley shrugged off his father's arm. "I won't be makin' that mistake again." Wesley drew his gun and, before his father could even reach his holster, shot him three times in the chest.

His father stumbled back a step before falling to the dirt. Welsey walked towards him and stared into his own cold eyes. To his surprise, he saw tears. Wesley fought the lump in his own throat as he said, "I guess you taught me too well," tearing the hat from his head and throwing it back at his father before walking off towards the house.

Wesley slammed the door open to the small cottage and froze in the foyer. The house was cloaked in shadow. It was as if clouds had risen just to keep these windows from the sun. It wasn't much different from how it had looked before he left, both in his life and in his dream. But instead of sanctuary, there was torture.

The kitchen and living room were furnished just as he'd left them. His boots seemed to echo with every step he took across the lifeless wooden floors. The hallway to the bedrooms was even darker, but faint light creeped out from the master bedroom, illuminating the blood on the floor. The lead in his chest returned and he found himself gasping for air as he turned into the room.

Wesley sank to his knees. His father had never lied. His dream would always be a dream. And his destiny was, as his father suggested, a deadly one.

Anabel still cradled her in her arms. Her eyes were still too big for her face. Her hands were still smaller than his nose. Sadie, Anabel had called her. Sadie Miller.

Wesley forced himself up and he crawled to where they rested on the ground. He grabbed Anabel gently and held her and Sadie against his chest as sobs crawled out of his throat. But it wasn't until nightfall that he could finally bring himself to bury them.

Wesley crouched before the two mounds of dirt below the tree near the house and placed a hand on each, fighting a pain like blades to his chest. "I ain't never deserved you. And I never will. I was a fool. You gave me every chance not to be, but I just wouldn't take them. Maybe I thought I deserved the pain of it all, I don't know. But I shall never know a greater regret than not showing you how much I loved you and proving it to you every day. And Sadie... Oh, Sadie..." His voice broke from tears, but he cleared his throat and brought forth his remaining strength to continue. "I was no father to you. I only wanted to be better than the one I had, but I couldn't get over myself enough to avoid becoming him. I realized only too late how lucky I was to have you and the joy you would've brought. You were my purpose, and nothin' else should've mattered. I love you, and I hope I meet you real soon."

He sat with them a while longer before he pushed himself to his feet again. He dusted off his pants and took in his surroundings. The small cottage, big enough for only three. The two horses grazing near the front porch. The body covered with a bloody hat. The tree overlooking two fresh graves. The initials in the bark. "AM".

Wesley took a long breath in before approaching those letters. He took a knife from his pocket and dug into the bark just below them. When he finished his knuckles gleamed white from his tight grip and ridges formed in his palm from the handle of the blade. He pocketed the knife and examined his work before walking into the house.

"AM. SM. WM."