Daydreams. Nightmares.

I woke up for a start. My bed sheets, dampened with sweat, the fabric clinging to my skin. My eyes took moments to adjust to the room’s darkness and the only sound was my shallow gasps of breath. With my heart still in my throat, I placed my hands on my mattress, grounding myself to reality.

A dream.

The words were barely a comfort. 

Despite my body’s protest, I heaved myself out of bed and padded to the bathroom. It was an effort not to look at myself in the mirror, and still, I failed. My golden skin took on a sickly pallor, my eyes red-rimmed and swollen, and once full cheeks now gave the impression of a corpse––my entire body was a skeleton due to the weight loss. 

I scowled at the person in the mirror.

I headed downstairs, keenly aware of the hallways and doorways that led to the people I felt miles away from, worlds away from. 

What is happening to me? I find myself asking.

I make a simple breakfast of burnt toast and avocados, topped with all the spices I love: garlic, paprika, salt and black pepper, red pepper flakes, and dashes of lemon juice. I might have felt pride in my work if I didn’t have the dreams that plague my sleep––instead, I felt livid. My back ached and my whole body was beyond the definition of sore. I cursed softly to myself, hating the toll the dreams have taken on me. I moved past the counter and sat down slowly and ate with trembling fingers. 

I watched the outside through the window until purple faded to pink, pink to blue. It was a nice moment of peace, of quite tranquility. Listening to the birds sing, I felt they sang for me, to lift my spirits.

I breathed in a long, stable breath.

“What are you doing?” said a figure from the shadows of the corner. 

I jumped by the sound of my sister’s voice, and it took a few minutes to school my features into nonchalance.

“Saving myself from your snores,” I smirked, glancing at Lynn’s scowl, I smiled wider. 

“Well, you look horrible. When have you last slept?” Lynn’s hazel eyes darkened with what looked like sadness, but it was gone, making me think my eyes are playing tricks on me now.  

“What are you talking about? I’m near stunning due to my beauty sleep,” I replied. 

A snort was my sister’s response.

No. I wanted to scream and beg for help. I cannot sleep!

But no voice came out of my parted lips.

That morning before school, I sent a text to my best friend Amie, who I have known to sense we were babies, checking if she understood the notes I sent her the day before about Trigonometry. I didn’t check if she replied or not, though my stomach lurched at her name.

It was a dream, just a dream, a dream.

I arrived at school, people scurrying to their classes, taunts and laughter echoed in the hallways, the noise not helping with the headache forming at my temples. 

The walls were of worn red brick, giving the entire school a vast and odd perception. Despite this, the school was a small campus, students are cramped into little space that reminds you of something between cozy and uncomfortable. The students were less than a thousand, sixth to eighth grade––everyone is close. Very close. Friendships have lasted for the entirety of the three years, of course there has been the occasional fight. Willow Middle School was sometimes a safe haven for me, the teachers were relatively kind to me, my peers, and I made easy grades. Though the A’s have gradually turned to C’s and D’s from being sleep deprived. 

My ears caught on a conversation between two girls and a guy from a grade lower than me. 

“I heard she was kidnapped!” the blonde-haired girl whispered. Her lips twitched down in a frown as her friend disagreed.

“No, people say she might be dead,”

“How? Why?” the boy grimaced as his thoughts led him elsewhere. 

“Killed probab––” 

I didn’t try to listen anymore. I guessed half of what they were saying were lies. As rumors usually are. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. 

I spot the brightly colored door that led to my first period with Ms. Gwen. Already dragging my feet across the floor, I made my way to class and sat down, stifling a groan. You look horrible. Lynn’s voice rattled in my brain. When have you last slept? 

What is wrong with me what is wrong with me what is wrong with me?

I yearned for lukewarm coffee to keep me awake––but maybe it’s better to get through the day numb with exhaustion.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Ms. Gwen finally walked through the door with her simple grin. She settled down quickly in an organized fashion and lifted her chin, the red waves of her hair falling over her shoulder. She greeted the class as the chime of the clock echoed. “Hello everyone, how are you today?” Half the class mumbled their response, the other addressed Ms. Gwen with actual manners. The teacher tried to hide her smile at the class’s enthusiasm.

“Maddox Brian,”

Attendance.

“Jason Clide,”

Ms. Gwen continued to list names.

“Barry Rhee,”

I flinched. My name brought more weight on my shoulders. And it's only the morning. Glimpsing the kids nearest me, they showed signs of concern. They saw the effects of my nightmares. The sunken cheeks. Red-shot eyes with deep bags. Moody personality. It only got worse.

“Amie Taylor,” Ms. Gwen looked around until her eyes stilled upon the vacant chair of Amie.

I sat down at the table with a thud. My juice spilling. My heart felt as though it had sunk to my feet.

I looked up absently at the people next to me. Licking my parched lips, I spoke with a surprisingly calm voice. “Do you know where she is?” I asked Clare Williams, Amie’s neighbor. 

Her brown eyes flashed. 

“I––I’m not sure,” Clare pursed her lips “Maybe she’s ill?”

I groaned at the thought of voicing my visions.

“No, something worse. I have this odd and maddening feeling.” My voice quavered. 

The small group of girls around me only shared troubled looks for me. They think I'm crazy. I can only agree with them. But this feeling is a gut feeling. More than that. It feels as though it's not instinct but rather, I already know the answer.

“Barr, I have some news,” my mom’s choice spoke softly.

Let it be good news. 

“Hmm?” I grumbled, the pain in my head exhausting. 

My mom walked into my room with a face twisted with sadness. Her eyes clouded with grief. Her voice strained as she spoke. “Amie has been killed,” It was barely a whisper but the words echoed as though they were screamed in my ear. Amie has been killed. Amie is dead. Amie is dead.

“What?”

“She was found strangled in her room.”

I couldn’t stop the tears that threatened to fall. They began to sting my eyes. My mom sat on my bed and held me in her arms as I sobbed and shook and moaned in grief. It was much worse. The dreams I have seen. The riddles that play over and over in my head that make no sense. The images of people I know.

I stopped my thoughts.

And no one believes a word I say.

I cry harder.