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Peaceful.
As I put a piece into place, it snaps together with the others, and I look up triumphantly as a loud knock reverberates through the house. The sound is commanding and intense. I could feel it vibrate into my legs from where I sit on the ground.
I glance at my mom and she frowns, “I’ll get that, it’s probably your father and he locked himself out. Stay here, okay kiddo?” She leans in to kiss my forehead as the knock comes again. Three louder bangs, somehow sounding more urgent than the last.
As she leaves the room, I slowly move to crack the door open a sliver, barely enough to see the back of her as she answers the person outside.
She retreats a step, turning defensively as someone moves in toward her and her body is tense, her arms raised slightly. From where I am, her face is not just afraid but almost angry as her mouthcurls into a snarl. The look is such a stark contrast from what I remember of her, that it’s hard to reconcile her to the mother I knew.
She continues to talk angrily to the person before her, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. My heart drops as the stranger takes a step further through the doorway toward her.
No. No, it can’t be.
I can see from his side profile, a vibrant green eye stares furiously at my mother, his face framed with strands of straight jet-black hair, brows pinched together as he shares words with her. She lunges at him, and he grabs her wrists with ease before I tear my eyes away.
Her shriek resounds in the air, “Run!” her voice is shrill as crashes sound throughout the cabin.
Suddenly my limbs move, and I’m sprinting out the backdoor to find my dad, but I know how this ends. My legs carry me to the woodshed and as I place my hand on the door, my gaze falls to the trail of blood at the bottom of the doorway. My arms weak with dread push it inch by inch, revealing my father’s unmoving body in the middle of the room. Crimson coating the wood that’s fallen to the ground next to him, and his own axe buried in his chest. His eyes face upward, unfocused and unseeing.
Choking down a sob, I retreat a step and trip, scrambling backwards into the snow as I try to get away from the shed. Movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye as jet black hair moves in the window of the cottage.
That gets my legs working again as I shove myself to my feet, and sprint into the frozen forest.
I gasp and sit upright, sweat slicked over my body, hair sticking to my neck and chest as I struggle to catch my breath.
Just another nightmare, Lara. You’re safe. You’re not that weak little girl anymore.
Logic and emotion war in my mind as it argues that it didn’t feel like just another nightmare and I don’t think I truly know what safety is. After going to college and leaving the foster system, I spent years and an exorbitant amount of money on self-defense classes. I trained in Krav Maga, I took Kendo and frequented a gun range, got a permit and purchased one to keep in the house, although I usually opt to grab my baseball bat in tense moments of paranoia.
I could never shake the feeling that I was not strong enough yet. I always assumed it was the remaining fear of being eight years old and being helpless to save my parents.
I reach over and sigh in resignation as I open my messages to my conversation with Claire.
Lara:Another nightmare. Different one tonight.
Within a few seconds the message delivers, and I’m about to toss my phone aside when I see her read it.
My screen flickers as I groan loudly at Claire’s incoming call, putting my head into one of my hands, the other slides to answer.
“Do you ever sleep?” My voice is hoarse and I grimace.
She ignores my question, knowing it’s deflection, “Tell me about it”
I rub one palm against my face, “I would rather not, honestly.”
I hear her huff on the other end of the phone, “What dream was it, Lara?”
I suck in a breath and blow it out unsteadily. “It was the night my parents were murdered.”
Claire’s quiet for a moment so I continue, “I saw a man at the bar on my birthday and he looked familiar. In my dream, he was the one who came to the house.”
To her credit, Claire’s voice remains even as she probes further, “Are you saying you saw your parent’s murderer at the bar orare you saying you saw a man and he became the murderer in your nightmare?”
“I have no idea here, Claire. I’m assuming the latter. There’s no way it would be the same guy, right? It’s been years. It’s probably just my mind playing tricks on me.” I hardly sound convincing and clearly don’t believe my own statement, but I hope she does.
Claire is quiet for another moment, “Are you taking the medications I prescribed for your sleep?”
Fuck.
