Ira

Dreams are strange things. Often a fantasy, sometimes a nightmare, they are so easily forgotten when you wake up. I wish I could wake up. I want to wake up, but not all dreams die with the night. Some hold on, whispering things you do not want to know and showing you things you do not want to see.

This dream shows me a girl running through the dark, past the monster hidden in the shadows.

A part of me knows that girl was me and I do not want to see what comes next. Or maybe I do. I don't know, and it doesn't matter, because ether way this dream is going to show me. Because right now I am not me, I'm someone else- No, something else. Something that watches the girl I used to be.

We watch her short moment of relief as her mother comforts her. We watch as she collapses into the trace, her body blazes with power. We watch when neither girl nor women notice the shadows come to life. As the monster attacks, knife-like fingers cutting into flesh, we are simply spectators observing the way the mother jerks and falls, and the way the girl screams. We listen for the moment the father awakens, absorbing the spectacle as he fires the gun at the monster again and bare witness as the monster falls to the floor to choke in its own blood.

We watch as the mother and monster die.

I really want to wake up.

This time when the thought passes through my mind the dream lets go.

And I wake up...sort of.

Today, waking up is slow.

I stare at the ceiling waiting for the emotions I know I should feel to hit. I wait for the sadness to come but it doesn't, it never does. There's no painful ache and no grief-stricken tears, only a mild sense of hollow relief. And how messed up is that? I just saw my mother killed again but all I can feel is relief. I'd feel guilty but I'm too tired for that.

Plenty of people cut their lives into neat, little memorable chunks; childhood, that awkward time between a child and a teen, the lovey years of adolescents, and the long drag of adulthood before finally landing somewhere in the land of the senile. You could say that's what I've done, but for me, there is only the before and the After.

Before the night I turned sweet sixteen. Back when I was normal. When I had friends and social media. Before when I knew when something was real and when it was only a dream. The time when I had my family. When I could joke and laugh and cry and feel.

Before. Before. Before.

Then that night.

The night I saw mom die, twice.

That's when my After started.

I've lived in the After for one year, eight months, and some odd days.

I think.

See time in the After is strange, almost as strange as the dreams or rather it is strange because of them. In the dreams, everything feels vibrant and alive. I eat, sleep and time passes. But then I open my eyes to another place. I think I'm awake because my body tells me so. Because in this world the sensations are different, I can't feel the cold or when it is hot, emotions are disconnected, sounds come from far away, while smells and tastes are dull, but at least here I am always the same. The same person in the same place with the same friends. I think I am awake because time here does not run ahead, stop, or double back. Time here doesn't chase itself around and around like an excited child. Here it marches at a steady uniform pace. So, yeah in "reality", I have survived for almost two years but in the dreams so much longer.

Here there is a clock. I don't need it, not to tell me what time it is anyway, but it's a familiar comfort. A habit left over from the Before, set to go off in thirteen seconds. I don't bother asking myself how I know that anymore. The knowing is just another part of the After, so I count down the seconds waiting for it to go off. Three, two, one. When it finally starts blaring, I keep waiting. It is only when a pillow hits my face that I remember this is the part where I get to choose what I do.

"Will you turn that noise off already, It's the frikkin' weekend!" Emma's words have an echo in my head but that does nothing to hide her obvious annoyance. Sitting up, I grab the pillow.

"You turn it off," I say, throwing it back toward the mountain of blankets she's buried beneath "It's your stupid clock." In answer, I get a hand emerging from the tangle of cloth to flip a bird.

The response makes me smile, if only a little, and shake my head as I climb out of bed and head to the bathroom to begin the dance that is my morning routine. Toilet, shower, teeth, clothes, all done without a single glance into the mirror. I manage to get through starting up the coffee and a bowl of cereal, all while avoiding looking at my reflection, but falter when I get to the sugar tin. An old copper bucket worn by time and polished by countless hands, its surface gleams with the early light of dawn. It's the reflective surface that catches me off-guard and I am faced with the inevitable sight of myself.

I take after my mother for the most part with an abundance of thick black hair being the one thing I inherited from my father. It would have broken her heart to see it now, cropped short and bleached blond, but with her petite build, heart-shaped face, and full lips I look like a younger version of her. When we left New York, we left everything behind. I have no pictures or mementos of her, so the resemblance is all I have to remember her by. Even so, it hurts to see. And to add insult to injury there is one feature I desperately wish I could wipe away.

My eyes.

In this strange twisted After my eyes have gone from light gray rimmed in ash to a bright, almost fluorescent, sapphire blue. When I first started to notice the change a few weeks after New York, it was just a ring of cobalt around the pupil. Within a month it had spread to cover the rest of my irises and even now they shone, two glowing orbs staring back at me. Sometimes I wish their color were the only thing that changed about them, but while everything else has become a muted memory, my sight has grown sharpener. Mindy says unusual sensations are a normal response to shock and grief, but there are two things wrong with that.

First, grief doesn't make you see monsters that aren't quite there.

Second, I don't grieve what I've lost.

A soft thud pulls me out of my reverie, and I look up to see my father standing in the doorway. Hair disheveled and clothes rumpled I can't help but feel a pang of sadness at what he has become. Once he stood with pride and the lines around his eyes were from years spent laughing. Now, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of wary sorrow, he is only a shallow remnant of the man I'd looked up to.

"Hey dad," I say, and his eyes flick up to meet mine but don't quite make it. Instead, they skitter away at the last possible moment, settling somewhere just over my shoulder.

"Hey.... how is school?"

"It's okay."

"Keeping your grades up?"

"Ya."

"Good."

He nods as If this is all he needed but fidgets, unsure what to do next. My own questions clamor around my brain. In the last week, this is the first time I've seen him. I want to know where he's been. I want to ask what really happened that night. I want to scream at him "look at me". But I'm not the only one reminded of mom, so I stay silent.

We stay this way until finally he clears his throat and tells me. "I have to go. I need to get back to..."

... to whatever secrets keep you up at night, secrets you won't tell me.

"Ok."

Another nod and he's gone.

I flinch when the screen door slams closed behind him and a few minutes later his old truck backfires as it rumbles away, leaving me to sit and stare down at the counter wondering what we were doing here. After spiriting me away and driving for eight days, we arrived in Ashtyn, Oregon, and made our way to Mindy's diner. When Mindy opened the door and saw who was standing on her porch, she immediately pulled us inside. The next week I started school at Ashtyn High with Emma as my guide. As far as our story went, dad was a cousin looking for work but there were no questions asked and no one seemed concerned with our sudden appearance.

The coffee maker gurgles a reminder and with a sigh, I pull out a mug. The smell is a bitter reminder of things best left undisturbed, but I manage to finish preparing the bitter beverage just as Emma enters the kitchen. She still wears rumpled pajamas, and her long dark hair is a mess, but Emma is beautiful in an effortless sort of way. She had the perfect complexion, and her skin always had a natural tan that I couldn't help envy, courtesy of her Mexican heritage.

"Oh my god, please tell me some of that is for me."

"Two scoops of sugar and a dash of cream," I say handing her the drink. She immediately takes a long sip and moans.

"You are an angel."

Smiling, I shake my head at her antics and ask.

"You ready to go?"

She groans.

"Tell me again why the fuck we're doing this?"

"Because your boyfriend is a super athlete, who happens to be very persuasive and you're a sucker for kisses"

"Right" she agrees with a sigh, "I guess I should go get dressed then."

Emma isn't a beauty queen, but she didn't really have the proper clothes for trekking through the woods, so it took almost an hour before she finished getting ready and we were able to head out. Neither of us says anything for the first few minutes of the drive and I'm grateful for the quiet. After the encounter with dad and last night's dream I already feel exhausted. Then the caffeine kicks in and Emma perks up.

"Know what you're going to do for your presentation?"

I shrug, not really interested in talking.

"I think I want to talk about how remnants from the 'Awakening' have shaped politics since we're doing that chapter this week anyway, but I'm not sure if I should..." As Emma rambles on about our history assignment I start to zone out.

Outside, the world flies by in a blur. I close my eyes and try to imagine I'm back home. Not New York with its ceaseless noise, but our tiny apartment where I could open the window and talk to my best friend across the alley. But those memories are tainted by the image of my mother bleeding out, so I open my eyes and look out at the little town that has become my refuge. The streets here aren't as full of people and those who do wander walk differently here. Slower, as if they're not in any rush at all. But like the big city, it is an old place and all around are Remnants of all types. Some strange plants twisting around old lamps, their roots entwined with the exposed wires. Others climb buildings even as they become a part of it in their reach for the sky. An old phone booth sits basking in the sun, with flowers every shade of the rainbow blooming from its steel frame as we pass by. Only in the old cities would you see such things; the abominations, created by an unknown cause. The city tries to beat back the overabundant growth, but nature is determined to reclaim this abused land.

The light ahead of us turns red and we roll to a stop. Across the road, a man stands at the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn. I don't know what it is about him that draws my attention, but I can't help staring. Then his head comes up as if he can feel me watching him. He looks around before his gaze lands on me. When our eyes lock, I see it. The entire right side of his face and neck is covered in bulbous blinking eyes. He stares at me for a long, long moment then smiles a slow creeping smile. The orbs on his lips and cheek squint to make room and expose the ones lining his gums. He knows, I think. He knows I see what he is. He tilts his head as if he can hear what I'm thinking too and takes a step forward. My heart races and I think I should be afraid, but it is a distant thought. The cross-sign flashes and he starts walking toward us.

Closer.

Closer.

The light turns green just as he steps up to the curb and the car lurches forward. Just like that, the spell is broken and we're moving. Looking through the side mirror I can still see him standing at the edge of the curb only now his face is that of a middle-aged man. As we drive away, he continues to watch us, his head tilted ever so slightly, but my brief moment of hallucination goes unnoticed by Emma.

We arrive at the Bow Trails Park just in time to not be late - if you can be late at 7:30 in the morning. It's too early for most people to be out yet, but a beat-up Chevy and old Harley-Davidson are parked at the edge of the lot. Three teens sit in the bed of the truck. Two boys both looked bored and the girl bent over one boy's arm. Parking across from them Emma hops out, looks around, and immediately asks "Where's Wes?"

"Had to take a dump," River tells Emma as I follow her, albeit much slower, to stand near the truck next to River. "Probably trying to find something to wipe his ass with now" she gives him a disgusted look, but he just responds with the same heart-stopping grin that got him voted prom king. "Hey, you're the one who asked," he says pointing an unlit cigarette at her before putting it in his mouth and pulling out a lighter.

"I thought you told Jennifer you quit." All of us look at Autumn, surprised to hear her speak up and her disapproval makes River pause but only for a moment. Taking in a long draw then blowing it out at her, he says.

"I did."

For a few seconds, they stared at one another, each daring the other with an unspoken challenge. As twins, they both had the same hazel eyes and blond hair. While River might look more intimidating with his half-hidden tattoos and scars, it was Autumn's quiet disregard for anyone outside her chosen group of people that always made me a bit nervous. She wore her rebellion as red streaks in her waist-length hair and cut up long sleeves, and never cared what crap her brother got into, so it was odd to see them silently fight over his smoking. Between them, JD shifts uncomfortably and sighs. The standoff eventually ends with River cursing and dropping the cigarette before stepping on it to put it out. Satisfied with her victory, Autumn picks a blue highlighter, leans over JD's arm cast, and goes back to her current masterpiece of knots, spikes, and spiders.

"What was that about?"

Emma directs the question to River, but it's JD who answers.

"Mrs. Henson doesn't want him smoking around the house anymore now that they got Lolo, Tay, and Naomi there and Autumn's tired of covering for him when he comes home smelling like weed." He explains as if this isn't the first time and it probably wasn't. Three of them spent most of their time together since JD and Autumn started dating their freshmen year.

Done with the conversation River asks, "does anyone have their presentation figured out?"

Autumn and JD shake their heads and Emma sighs. "I still have to pick my topic. I want to do something on the "Awakening", but Mrs. Pearson might have a heart attack if do." River grunts an agreement then everyone looks at me and I inwardly cringe. I stare down at my shoes, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face, and shrug.

I hate being the center of attention.

It always feels like they'll see the messed-up things I've dreamed of in my unnatural eyes and remember I am different from them.

"Oh, come on." River presses "you always ace history, don't tell me you haven't finished yours already." Again, I just shrug and Emma sighs. After a moment he gently kicks at my foot making me look up at him and says "you should help me with mine"

I blink at him, caught off guard for a second by his request. Yes, I got good grades in history, but not because I studied or had a good memory. I got good grades because I simply knew the answer if someone asked me a question. I didn't think trying to explain that to River was the best idea, especially when the answers I got weren't always the ones history wanted us to remember. I realize I've gone too long without responding when he raises one eyebrow in question and I look away again.

"I work tomorrow," I tell him.

This time he shrugs.

"We'll do it some other time, when is your shift this week?'

"Do what?"

I'm saved from answering River by Wesley's appearance and can't help but feel relieved. Where River was classically handsome, Wes was boyishly cute with brown eyes, softly curled hair, dimples, and the personality to match. He was Loyal as a dog, overactive, and the only one besides Autumn who never seemed bothered by River's constant need to be the center of attention. He was also Emma's boyfriend and the reason we'd all come to the park.

"River wants Ira to help him with his history presentation," Emma says walking over to smile up at him. Wes immediately wraps his arms around her and leans down for a kiss.

"Hmm, when is that due again?"

"Two weeks" River announces, making Wes grimace, and tossing an arm around my shoulder pulls me close "lucky for me, our resident historian is going to help me"

"I never actually agreed to anything," I point out and he gives me a hurt look.

"But you will, won't you?"

I smile because as frightening as River could be when he wanted to, he was also a huge goof.

"Fine, but I'm not doing it for you," I add.

"Great." He lets go of me and leans over to grab a pack of his motorcycle. Now come on, let's get this shit-show on the road before the love birds start making out again"

We headed north, following the partially overgrown trail through trees and underbrush. All around birds sang with an abandon found only in the early hours of morning and blossoms were just starting to peek out from under fallen branches. It was peaceful out here where nature had been left uncorrupted. According to Wes, an old house had been abandoned out here after the women who owned it never woke up. Apparently, it was a popular hike on the day of Slumber so we'd decided to go today to avoid the crowd that would gather there to tell the stories of family members who had survived that day so long ago.

It took us three hours to reach our destination and by the time we got there, we were all out of breath from the steep climb. We emerged from the trees into a large clearing. In the center, a log house stood stoical amid a sea of long grass, its roof a canopy of flourishing leaves and blooming roses despite early spring weather.

We made our way inside to find the front door led into a large open space that must have once been a living room and kitchen. Next to the door, a sweeping staircase led up to the second-floor balcony and more rooms. splitting up to explore River, JD, and Autumn heading upstairs while I followed Emma and Wes farther into the house. In the back a short hallway led to a small library and two bedrooms, both having been renovated to fit several bunkbeds for hikers wanting to stay a night or two in the historic building.

At one time it would have been a grand house. Now, the whole place smelled of damp dirt, and the three massive timbers that once served as the house's support beams have taken root, digging through tile and cement to reach the earth deep beneath the house, and grown branches that tangled with the rafters and branch out broken windows. The foliage covering the ceiling was so thick only a few stray strands of sunlight pierced through the darkened interior.

I felt drawn to the strange trees in the middle of the room and before I could think anything of it, I found myself standing before one of the majestic evergreens. Up close a soft light seemed to glisten through cracks running between darker patches of outer bark and I couldn't resist the urge to touch the textured surface

I felt it pulling me into itself.

It was a proud free thing.

"Ira, stop it!" Startled, I turned to see Emma standing nearby and for a moment she seems to radiate her own light. Quickly glancing over her shoulder, she hissed "Your eyes."

My glowing eyes.

I blinked, trying to get rid of the haze surrounding her. She studies me with a wary look as she comes closer and only when the glow fades, does she relax.

"Are you ok?"

I nod, then look around.

"Did anyone see?"

"No, at least I don't think so," she says, then after a pause "that hasn't happened in a while, are you sure you're ok"

"Ya," I smile to reassure her. I don't think it works but JD leans over the upstairs railing interrupting anything she might have said.

"You guys should come up here. there's another balcony outside and River brought food" he tells us before disappearing back into the house

We head upstairs to follow him, but I can feel Emma's unease. She doesn't like hiding my oddities from others but knows that no good will come from telling them. A part of me thinks she's afraid too. I don't know if it is of me or of what would happen to them if they knew, and I can't help but wonder if maybe she's right to be afraid.