"You have been the last dream of my soul."

- Charles Dickens

꘏۞꘏

The writer, Mr. Andrew Anderson, awoke in the cold of the morning to the sounds of wind blowing hard against his windows. This round, no time was wasted questioning the dreams of the night before. There was no time! It was now obvious to Andrew that his son's very life could be taken from him at any moment.

Thus, the man burst from his bed, rushing down the corridor to a room he somehow knew as Peter's. He made no such effort to keep quiet, hoping to awake all who may be in the house.

The door to Peter's room slammed open and smashed against the wall, leaving a mark on the wallpaper. Immediately the teenager perked up with an ever worrisome expression, "Pap! is something the matter?"

Andrew collapsed at his son's bedside, gripping his hands, shoulders, and cheeks, forcing the brunette-headed boy to look him in the eyes. His voice was rushed and stern, a tone he rarely used with his son, "Peter, please, tell me of this reality. Are you here? Living? Breathing? In front of me now?"

"Haven't you got your own eyes? Can you not see for yourself?" The boy replied, his brow creased in apprehension and his voice horse from his slumber.

Plainly, Andrew replied, "It is not enough. I must know for sure."

"Ah," the child mumbled, his hands playing with each other in his lap, "And if you see it is not real? Would you leave me for what was?"

"I would like that statement to be elaborated," Andrew demanded.

Peter shrugged in return, "I read a story about a grieving man, who dreams fantastical dreams of his deceased loved one because it is too upsetting to wake up without them. Yet, in the end, he realized that there was no way to rid the past and sacrificed his love so he could return to what was true. It was tough for him... saying goodbye, that is."

Andrew listened to his child as if they were sharing the secrets of the world. Perhaps the writer's life was walking the tightrope that were these very words. His chest rose slowly as he absorbed the meaning behind his son's gentle words.

"It makes me wonder," Peter continues, "If my existence were only a dream... would you abandon it? Would you abandon me?"

"No," the father whispered, "Never, Peter, never."

Peter hummed. Nodding his head and looking away, "I wish you had answered differently."

There was a solemn silence that flooded the room after that. The stench of comprehension flowed through the windows and under the door. The aura of pre-mature grief encapsulated Andrew, and the contentment of a new day faded away.

An interruption showed itself in the form of Andrew's mother, Mrs. Anderson, knocking the door open and stomping into the room, cap, nightgown, and all.

"Andrew Anderson!" She accusingly boomed, "What is the meaning of this ruckus in the morning. Why you woke me before the hen's call. The sun is hardly awake!"

Peter was the first to speak, always crafting peace whenever he could, "My father only ails from a nightmare. He came to check on me and assure my safety."

Mrs. Anderson huffs like an overworked mare, "Oh, Andrew. Are you not old enough to decipher reality for yourself?"

"It appears not," Andrew sighs, "It's morning enough. We might as well get ready. Off mama, to your room. Dress yourself; yell later."

And so it was, though not without another loving glance at Peter... The family was dressed for winter and calling for a carriage not so much as two hours later.

Mrs. Anderson thought it would be nice to make gingerbread and celebrate a Union victory in Nashville by the fireside plus looked to run an errand to the general store and her friend's home near the river.

As the sleigh battled the snow and bedded the coats and blankets of the family, Andrew couldn't pull his eyes from morbidly picturing every possible way that Peter could lose his life during this ride. The father held the son's hand, thinking that any second a horse could run rampage or the carriage could burst into flames, or battle could be born right next to them.

Andrew's hand latched to Peter's. Even the physical tether lacked the support to keep Andrew grounded with what was true. The world around him was but a smeared painting, resembling reality but lacking the exact realism he was looking for. Small crumbs of memory tumbled through Andrew's eyes and felt as though nothing was real.

The writer felt the need to save Peter from his upcoming death, yet he had no recollection of a death sentence calling the boy... not now. The writer seemed to be living many lifetimes, all crammed into one, and there was no way to tell them apart.  For, Perhaps what he was seeing and feeling at this moment was far from the truth and only a sloppy story invented by himself, a way to stray from his own reality, a reality that may be so terrible that he's invented this universe for himself.

"Papa? Are you alright?" the teen asked from beside his father, "You've been shaking this whole ride, and your hand is latched so tight to mine that I fear you'll break bone."

Andrew looked him in the eyes, the shiny brown eyes that had graced his side for sixteen years, almost too good to be true. "I'm alright, my son. I just question myself is all."

The rest of the ride was spent with Andrew drowning in his ocean of thought everything he reached for, failing to keep him afloat.

The name of Mrs. Anderson's friend was Rebecca Dawson. She was a young lady. One whom Andrew had never met before. Apparently, her father was a notable doctor, and she planned to follow in his footsteps and become a nurse.

While Mrs. Anderson made a point to insist that only she went to great Miss. Dawson, Peter and Andrew were much too cold to fail to say hello.

Rebecca lived in a nice home, quant as it might be. The wooden frame was painted dark red and the door a sunny yellow. There were two sections, one for the doctor to use and one for the family. Shutters that matched the door marked two windows outside the home, and long sill pots, housed snow, and brown shrivels of plants, which one can only imagine would look magnificent during blooming season.

Behind the house was a line of trees and then a narrow river, its rapids too fast to freeze.

At the door was a lion's head, a ring running through the copper skull. Mrs. Anderson pounded three times before returning her hands to her mitts and shivering in the cold.

Some ruckus was heard inside before a woman appeared in the doorway.

Andrew's breath caught in his throat.

The woman was lean with midnight dark hair, tied carefully into a bun, and a luminescent smile, the likes of which he'd seen before.  The woman who had reappeared in his dreams, right before his child was taken from him.

Peter's shoulders were instantly in his grasp, apprehension overtaking his messy mind.

The world carried on. The woman's teeth gleamed, and she welcomed Mrs. Anderson into her home with a quick few sentences ending in, "You three must be freezing out there. Please follow me. Warm yourselves by the fire."

"Thank you," they mumbled out of unison.

Rebecca lead the trio through her home. It was what one must expect for a place of such standard finance. The wallpaper was red flowers contrasting a beige background. The door frames were a dazzling hand-carved light brown with tiny pattern gracing that who chooses to enter.

The short trip ended when in a parlor hardly set for guests. There was no fancy table set up or furniture, just enough to get by without showing off.

"Thank you, miss," Peter chimed, "You have a very nice home."

The woman sighed, almost as a breathy laugh, "Not as nice as I wish, young boy. See, I wish we had an extra parlor and perhaps a fine-dining space. I wish the kitchen had wallpaper and the stairs were wider. Ah, but alas, you can't always get what you wish for."

She paused for a moment breathing in her surroundings before turning to Andrew without warning, "Andrew Anderson!" She remarked, "You are a fantastic writer. Your collection of short stories released two years ago was all my father would talk about for some time. He's quite fond of you."

Andrew forced a smile. "Tell him I give thanks. I fail to find praise from myself, and I find I rely solely on outside sources for any sign that I have the slightest bit of talent."

Rebecca laughed, "Yes... Was it not the great diarist who once said, 'I am my own harshest critic' when speaking of their work?"

Andrew stopped for a moment. He recalled this quote. 'Twas something he'd heard before and thought about consistently. However, he couldn't recall where he had formed such a memory... it was as if it hadn't happened yet.

He stuttered a response, "I... I do not recall such a quote. It does sound familiar, though."

"It will come to you," Rebecca assured. She was like a snake at the moment, staring him down with beady eyes as if to communicate something without the use of words. She created a mutual understanding that she knew something he did not, and therefore she was powerful.  The writer was only prey.

Andrew took careful consideration of this. For in such a situation was something no man wished for. It was a vulnerable position, a dangerous one too. At any moment, he could be swept from under the feet, squeezed by the neck, and devoured whole. Worse, he could watch the single most important person meet the same untimely fate.

On the other hand, she could offer him knowledge, and he could use her to his advantage. Perhaps she would help willingly. Perhaps she was put in this space to do so. It was entirely possible that she was the cause of all his problems in the first place.

Did it not make sense that the woman Andrew had never met and has no relation to caused the confusing sensation that he lives?

The thought was interrupted by Andrew's mother, in her secondhand flirtation, "Why if you and  my son would like to become acquainted, Peter and I would be happy to leave you be for a few moments."

"I would like for Peter to stay," Andrew spat quickly.

The grandmother scrunched her face and made a noise of disapproval, "Peter is almost a grown man; he'll be fine for an hour or two."

Andrew's voice raised in a protective stance, "I am his father, and I ask that he stays!"

"If it will be trouble --" Peter tried only to be cut off by his father.

"No! Stay. Please."

Rebecca smiled, far too lovingly for the villain the writer had drafted her as. She spoke soft, like a mother soothing her kin, "Mr. Anderson, what are you afraid will happen if Peter does not stay? Are you afraid that he'll be hurt? That you'll lose him."

Andrew felt the beating of his heart pick up... something inside of him was desperate.

"I've changed my mind," He huffed, "I'd like to leave. Now!"

Peter reached for his hand, "Papa? Are you alright?"

"No!" Andrew nearly shouted, "I'm frighted and confused -- and I would like to leave, now."

The boy, so soft and simple, smiled with hints of concern in his eyes. He addressed the room with a quiet and healing tone, "Why don't we head outside while you ladies finish your business? I was itching to see the river anyhow, and it will be good for Papa to get fresh air. Yes?"

"Yes, Peter, that sounds like a wonderful idea," the eldest said.

Peter smiled shyly and took his father by his arm. The two walked back into the frigid weather and navigated their way to the back of the house, where a crystal river rampaged through lines of trees.

As if it was put there, expecting them, a stone bench was situated right on the line of water. Peter took the liberty of brushing the snow off and taking a seat. He shivered profusely but never dared complained.

The boy looked out at the water with wonder in his eyes. He spoke softly, poetically, "Winter is something beautiful. It brings us heaven's diamonds and dreamy sparkles while implementing stabbing cold. Winter is the seductive royal that fights in vain of herself and fades away with the coming of the sun."

Andrew finds himself sitting beside his child. The bench is frozen, and he itches with uncomfort, yet it all fades away with the presence of the son.

They didn't speak much as they watched the translucent rapids of the thin river before them. Their power and violence became mesmerizing, and the pattern of the wrath almost calmed the two.

Trees covered in frigid powder swayed in the backdrop. Their evergreen branches strongly resisting the storm.

Peter shivered particularly harshly during a strong wind. Andrew sat closer, and they radiated off each other's heat and energy.

After a while, Peter spoke once more, quietly, "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"You said you were frightened. What are you frightened of?"

Andrew hung his jaw and evaluated the ways in which he could form a response, eventually ending with, "I'm afraid of a life without you. I'm afraid there is a circumstance in which I'd have live alone in the agony of grief. And I'm afraid that such a reality is the one I'm in now."

Peter shook his head, "I don't understand."

Andrew opened his mouth as if to speak again but was caught off guard by a large wave of wind that blew his hat straight from his head into the stream.

Both father and son made a sound of surprise. Peter instantly leaping to his feet and rushing towards the waters.

"Peter, no. Leave it be!"

The boy did not hear, or perhaps he simply didn't listen. Bounding down the stream in a childlike manner, chasing the hat like a kitten after yarn.  The wind muffled all sounds, but Andrew was sure he even heard laughs accommodating the action.

Frightened that this would be the moment his nightmare repeated, Andrew called again and again for Peter to stop the chase, each time going unnoticed.

Alas, the child's fun did end.

To the writer's relief, Peter grabbed the hat, now soaked and crystalized, from the water. The boy held his trophy high in the air.

"I've got it!" he cried, a smile spread wide across his face.

Andrew laughed, "Good boy! Now come back, and we shall celebrate somewhere safer."

"Yes, Pap--" the line was no more. For, as Peter took a step towards his father, the pad of his shoe caught on the unforgiving ice. The teen was thrust back with help from the still-blowing wind. His neck made a splitting snap as it struck the icy stone below. There was no struggle nor pain before the life left his eyes.

Animalistic screaming burst through Andrew's body as he attempted to run to his boy only to fall victim to wooded winter as well. The man fell to the ground, and when he lifted his head, there was no way to doubt the fact that his son was dead.

For the writer, who had crafted so many realities before strayed away from his own, wanting desperately to hold onto something different.

Watching the once clear river become painted with the flow of fresh blood, the writer breathed a simple command...

"No..."

——
Hehe
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