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RHYS
Falling asleep when you know someone is waiting for you to go under is more difficult than I imagined. I toss and turn for way too long while Zara keeps yawning so big her jaw cracks. It’s finally that knowledge, that I’m keeping her awake with my fidgeting, that gets me to calm the fuck down.
We moved out of my office and upstairs to my bedroom for this experiment. I’m splayed out on my king-sized bed, and Zara’s on her side next to me. She’s tucked into my side, her head resting in the crook of my arm. I let the warmth of her skin and the soft sounds of her breaths relax me.
When I open my eyes to check on her, she’s gone. Actually, the bed and my bedroom are gone as well. In its place is a room I know well. It’s a place I despise.
The home I grew up in.
I’m in the living room. Everything in here has a specific place. The remotes have been placed in a perfectly straight line on the coffee table. The copy of Sports Illustrated lays on the side table that sits between the couch and my father’s chair.
There’s no art on the walls, because that’s frivolous and causes clutter. Nothing to indicate that any children live here at all. No hand-drawn pictures stuck by magnets on the refrigerator, no shoes or bookbags chucked by the front door. We were ghosts in this house, by necessity and choice. To avoid our father’s fists, Lena and I spent as little time at home as we could. When we were here, it was best to stay silent and hope he’d forget we were even alive.
I might have thought Lena’s need to burn this place down was a little impulsive, but I’m glad this fucking house is gone.
“What the fuck is this?” At my father’s cold tone, a chill races down my spine. Hell, I’m a grown ass man. I know he can’t hurt me any longer, but some wounds of the past are so deep they cause phantom pains that never really go away.
I turn to find my father staring at his chair. It’s been moved an inch from its spot. The spot that Scott Marsten determined was the perfect placement to see the television and to have access to his table. Who the fuck knows what moved it, an accidental bump? Pushing the recliner back down? He probably did it himself, but the piece of shit would never even consider that he could have done anything to disrupt his perfectly ordered world.
My father is younger here, and he’s staring at me with so much vitriol that I have no doubt about what comes next. His hand raises in the air, his eyes narrowing on me and filled with disgust. I know I’m dreaming, but I can’t stop the fear that courses through me. In my mind, I’m ten again and I can’t fight against him. Not yet. I can’t shut out the feelings, even though I know it’s not real. At least this time.
The dream won’t let me take control.
“Rhys?” The soft, throaty voice that I’m starting to crave forces cracks to appear in the dream. My father is still glowering at me, his hand raised in the air, but his arm isn’t swinging toward my face. He’s not frozen, but it’s as if this version of him isn’t able to carry out the expected action.
“Zara.” I search the room for her. This fucking dreamscape feels like the room is both endless, and like nothing exists outside of what my eyes can physically see.
“I’m here,” she says, stepping out of the shadows that, in real life, was my childhood kitchen. She’s wearing the same clothing from earlier. She’d thrown on one of my shirts before we climbed into bed, and it hits her midway down her thighs. Her hair is a messy tumble down her back, looking like she’s just been fucked within an inch of her life.
Zara reaches out for me. I clasp her hand in mine and take a step away from the dream version of my father. He’s blinking slowly at the space I just occupied, as if he’s still seeing a version of me there.
“This is really fucking weird. Are you really here? Or are you part of my dream as well?” I look at my father and then down at Zara.
“I’m fairly certain I’m dream walking right now. I can still kind of feel my hand on your chest where we’re laying on your bed. It’s very strange. A bit like straddling two worlds at the same time.”
I brush the tips of my fingers over her forehead, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear before brushing a kiss over her lips. “And can you feel that as well?”
Zara groans. “No time for that. I have no idea how long I can stay here, and we need to test a few things out first. I don’t know if you would have been able to see me, if I hadn’t called out to you.”
“Well, it’s a little late to test that this time. What else?”
“I wonder if I can manipulate the dreams, to change them into something else, or am I just a passive observer?”
“Well, you’re not exactly passive right now, are you? You must be able to change things to some extent, because I’m talking to you and not getting whaled on by my father.”
Zara’s face pulls together in a pinched frown as she looks over at the almost freeze-framed version of my dad. “We should curse him.”
Surprised laughter escapes my throat, and I grin at her. “Really?”
“Yes. You’ll be able to do it, eventually. I don’t know everything he’s done to you and Lena, but I know enough. We could curse him to forget you and Lena exist. That way, he will leave you alone forever.”
My head jerks back at that. “Is that something I can really do?”
“Possibly. It might take some practice, but there’s a good chance.”
I hum in response. “I’ll have to talk to Lena. This would be as much her decision as mine. We can discuss that later. Let’s see if you can change things in the dream. I’d really like to stop looking at his face, so get to work.”
Zara nods, her face a mask of concentration. Her eyelids droop in slow blinks, like she’s falling asleep. The room around us grows fuzzy, like it’s a memory I can’t quite grasp. It doesn’t disappear, it just gets sort of wispy. What’s more, is that I can feel the press of Zara’s magic on my skin. It feels like her, spicy, floral, a soft caress against my skin. If she did this in Colton’s dream, would he be able to sense her?
