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To kill Mom.
Fuck. Why was I... why the hell was I holding...?
We’ve fallen asleep on the sofa, its smell musty, mingling with the scent of sex, and when I turn, I almost fall off in my hurry. I grab the door, opening, faintly hearing behind me Luna calling my name, and then I’m out, in the dark, barely making it to the porch rail before I bend over it and lose my dinner.
Or whatever it was I last ate.
What the fuck’s wrong with my head, what’s up with these goddamn dreams, huh? I never killed anyone. That was Dad. I’m not... I’m not...
“Ross? You all right?” She rubs her hands up and down her arms, and I want to touch her, but my breaths are unsteady, same as my legs. “Bad dreams?”
“I’m okay,” I say automatically.
“You can tell me about them. It might help you calm down, get back to sleep.”
I don’t wanna calm down. I stumble away from her, go down the steps. I remember the girl curled on the green grass, her eyes the same shade. Kind. Her eyes were kind—just like they are now—and I can’t take it.
“You must fight it,” she says after me, and damn if she doesn’t follow me.
“I can’t,” I tell her, my voice hoarse and raw.
“You can. For me.”
I don’t even know what we’re talking about, I only know she’s asking too much from a loser like me. The dream has really fucking thrown me off. As I walk and stagger in the dark, toward the stream, I still can’t decide what was real and what not: the trees, the sky, the earth... the girl. They’re the same as in my dream, confusing me.
I only need some time, some fresh air to clear my mind. I think she’s fallen behind, let me go—so I start when she appears beside me and takes my hand, matching my steps, her smaller fingers wrapped tight around mine.
We stop when the stream appears, as black and studded with stars as the sky it reflects, a river of molten glass, a mirror of my dreams.
My breath goes out in a rush. “Fuck, I don’t wanna...”
“You don’t want what?”
“Don’t want to become like him.”
“Who?”
I swallow hard. “Dad.”
“Then don’t. Choose a different path.”
She makes it sound so easy. “All the paths seem to lead back here.”
“To the river?”
“To the past.”
She’s quiet. Then she lifts my hand and brushes her lips over my knuckles. I almost jerk my hand away, not expecting that, and she shoots me a sideways look and a smile.
I tug my hand away and she tugs it back. “I was wrong,” she says quietly.
“About what?”
“Actions are good, but words are also important when spoken from the heart.”
“That so?” But I leave my hand in hers, fighting something I can’t name. Words are important...and they get stuck in my throat. What if I told her about the dreams, about my time in jail, about the voices in my memory, in my head, tugging me the other way. The same damn voices that spoke to me that day on the garage roof.
“You’re not a quitter, Ross,” and I swear she can see inside my mind, read my thoughts, or else why the hell would she be saying this?
