Don't get me wrong, I love sleep. But sometimes, the dark expanse of unconsciousness is cold. And other times, it reminds me of a day that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

The day that I became a danger to all.

But, the dreams do not bring me to the events of that day, instead, they bring the events to me.

The dream started with me in a hallway in my school, devoid of all other life but me. The only noise that pierced through the silence was a faint siren in the distance, though it stuck in my ear as if it was right next to me. Drops of a red substance made a trail down the floor, rounding the corner. My stomach lurched the sight of it, and I tried not to look down at my hands.

There was a formula to surviving these dreams. Don't look at your hands. Don't engage anyone. And never, ever, look into a mirror.

I slowly walked down the hallway, feeling as if I wasn't in control of myself. My legs were shaking as I took each step, even though I knew this wasn't real.

This wasn't real.

I had to keep thinking that. This. Wasn't. Real.

I made my way through the hallway and to a classroom, still not seeing anyone else. The trail of blood ended at the shut door of the classroom. Whatever made it, was inside.

And my body was forcing me to go in.

I tried to keep my head down as I entered the room, though I could see there was no escaping the gore. The blood trail now became a smear against the white tile floor, now with some chunky substance that I didn't want to discern.

"What have you done?" My head snapped up to see Nadia. She was wearing the dress that I saw her in when she went to our school's eighth grade dance. Long-sleeved, baby blue, down to her ankles. Wearing a silver hijab. I remembered how pretty she looked in it, and how annoyed I was that I couldn't dress up and join my friends at the dance.

Now, it just made me want to break down. I tried to speak, but I was just a spectator now in this game of chance.

"Look. Look at them! They didn't deserve to die, Giovanna." She pointed towards the desks, and I had no choice but to look over.

What I saw was expected, but still sent shocks through my whole body. Jacob was on the floor, lying face-up on top of Ray. Holes littered Jacob's body, and while I couldn't see the damage on Ray, neither were moving. The blood smear had now turned into a pool around the two of them.

"Who else are you going to kill, huh?" I looked into Nadia's eyes as she spoke. In reality, I had only seen her this angry once. But, it felt like I had seen it a thousand times. A thousand times where I couldn't even defend myself.

"And here I was trying to protect you. You're the one that needs to be protected from!" Nadia started to walked towards me, ink coming from seemingly nowhere.

This wasn't good. This wasn't going to end well at all.

"I hate you! I fucking hate you!" My body moved before I did, throwing my hands up as Nadia lunged at me. I tried to look away, but I had to watch as Nadia's blue dress became red with blood.

As I killed her.

"Nadia, no!" I didn't realize I was screaming, or even that I was awake, until I felt strong arms wrapping around what seemed like my whole body.

"Shhh... tutto andrà bene, Passerotta." I came into reality as I heard my father's voice, calling me the silly name he called me ever since I was little. I couldn't help but smile.

"Little sparrow," I mumbled into his chest, hugging him back. "I'm okay, dad."

"Was it another nightmare, Gi?" My dad only held me tighter, his hand gently soothing my hair down.

"Yeah. Wasn't anything different." That was a blatant lie, but I didn't need my dad worrying about me. That usually led to extra sessions with Greenstein and a lot of coddling from him, and it was just something that I didn't want.

"You know I'm proud of you, right?"

"I need food." Slick. Real slick there. I should've been called soap, with how slick I was.

But, my dad went with it.

"Let's go cook something together, kiddo." My dad helped me to my feet, smoothing my hair down before leading me into the kitchen. When we got there, I moved like clockwork, grabbing ingredients from the cupboard without thought.

"Pecan pomegranate salad?" I asked, even though I had already determined that I was doing so.

"Sure, kid. I'll make that winter stew thing we tried for Christmas. Sound good?" I nodded in response, taking out a bowl to start the vinaigrette in.

As I worked on the salad, I found myself sneaking glances at my dad. In many ways, we were similar. Same "strong-looking" figure, as he always put it, always on the shorter side, same hair texture. I was a lot paler than him, but I always blamed that on the fact I'm not allowed to go outside a lot. But one thing about him always fascinated me, no matter how old I got. His eyes. His deep, amber, almost mocha-looking eyes.

I didn't have his eyes. I have blue eyes. Like the sea.

Like my mom.

I felt an all too familiar pain inside of me as I thought about that for the millionth time.

Does he ever miss her when he sees me? I thought, my gaze resting on my dad for longer than what I expected.

"Kiddo, you okay?" A touch on my shoulder snapped me out of my daze, a smile automatically forming on my face.

"Yeah. Just zoned out." I turned back to making my salad, mentally yelling at myself for slipping into that state of mind. If my dad found out, he would feel bad, which would start a downward spiral of guilt for the two of that I didn't want to repeat again.

After I had finished with the salad, I took out a glass from the cabinet. It was just then that I realized how much I needed water, though I tried to make it casual, and not that I was dying of dehydration.

"Kid, why don't you sit down and turn on the tv? I just need to wait for the oven to finish preheating. I'll bring the salad over." My dad ruffled my hair as he spoke, sending me over to the couch.

My dad and I always did things weird. We owned a kitchen table, but we almost never sat at it. We ate all of our meals while watching science documentaries, and always sat on the couch. Jacob always said that it was weird, comparing our eating habits to our cooking habits, but he secretly enjoys it. He just didn't want to admit it.

It was then that I decided to ask what had been sitting in the back of my mind for a bit.

"Dad, did I get you in trouble?" I fiddled with the edge of my shirt, feeling panic arising within me as I said it.

"Of course not, dear. Why would you think that we're in trouble?"

"I'm being impris- I mean, under surveillance, for a few weeks." I glanced at my father out of the corner of my eye. Does he not know?

"It happens to all of us, kid. Never means we're in trouble. Just, they're paranoid." My dad started to put some salad on two plates, somehow not seeming disappointed. He never was with me, but for some reason, I always felt like it was coming.

"Well, then do people do when they're under surveillance?" I looked back at the tv. Koalas were the subject of the day. I waited for some philosophical answer from my dad, as he always did.

"Well," he seemed to struggled for an answer, "we can talk about that more in a few days. After all, your teachers will hopefully send you work that you could do for now." He sat down on the couch next to me, handing me a plate and a fork.

"And if they don't?"

"Then allow it. Just, take this time to relax."