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* * *
“Take me with you tomorrow, please Matty, don’t leave me here,” I beg through my tears.
He takes my face in his hands and refuses to let me look away. I can just barely make out his handsome features in the dark. “Love, you know I can’t just take you. They will say I kidnapped you and send me to jail. We have to do this the right way. I swear to you, I will find a way to get you out of this place.”
I push my forehead to his, and he just holds me there. I have a feeling that this will be the last night we have together, and there is so much I should tell him. I know he’s older than me. I know this isn’t right, but I’ve been in love with him since the first time he pulled me out of a hidey-hole on my second day in this hellhole.
He sees me. He’s been my protector, my friend. My everything. Matthew is the only person who has cared about me besides my mom. And she didn’t even love me enough to stay clean. She died chasing a high that was more important than her daughter.
We lay snuggled against each other, silently soaking up the last hours we have. When the first light of dawn starts to creep through the window, I roll over so that my upper half is laying across his chest, my chin resting on my folded arms. “Matty, you know I’m in love with you, right?” I ask quietly.
Pushing his fingers through the mess of my hair, he roughly pushes his lips to my forehead, scratching my skin a bit with his morning stubble. “Yeah, baby girl, I know.” his voice is rough with emotion as he continues, “God damn me to Hell, but I love you too. Doesn’t change anything though, you know that. You are everything to me, but at the same time, we can be nothing more than this until you’re eighteen. You understand that, right?”
Smiling a sad smile, I nod my understanding then rest my head back down on his chest. “I’m going to miss you, Matty.”
“Me too, love. Me, too.”
The dream shifts to a different time. A different memory.
Matthew is gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks. The Grants won’t let me out of the house. It’s summer vacation from school, and not even the younger kids are allowed outside to play.
A new social worker came yesterday, and something about the visit seemed to spook the Grants. This social worker was different. She didn’t just do a cursory check and leave, she went through the entire house and talked to each of us kids individually. Of course, none of us spoke one ill word of the Grants. We all learned that lesson when the old social worker reported directly to the Grants whatever we said.
I hate not knowing why this last visit was different. Did Matthew finally find someone to listen to him? He promised he would get me out of this house. I wish I could contact him. Mrs. Perfect storms into the room I now share with three other girls—a trio of sisters that came to live here two weeks ago—and starts pulling trash bags out of a box and throwing them at us.
“Pack your shit. You have five minutes.” She leaves without another word.
Lydia, the youngest of the sisters, starts crying as the rest of us look at each other in confusion. None of us are stupid, we’ve all been in the system long enough to know the score. We start shoving our things into our trash bags. Lydia cries the whole time.
Five minutes later, Mr. Perfect screams for everyone to get downstairs. Trash bags in hand, we march down the stairs expecting to see our new social worker. That’s what happens when you’re told to pack and given a black trash bag. A social worker comes and takes you away. Not that any of us would complain. Anywhere is better than here.
I don’t know how much I’m going to be made to regret that thought. Within minutes, we are all loaded into a van… not a regular van with seats and stuff, a moving van. Cara, the oldest of the trio of sisters, puts up a fight when she realizes what’s happening. Mr. Perfect slaps her so hard she’s knocked to the ground. Nobody fights after that.
Two days later, we arrive at Red House. That’s when I know I will never see Matthew again. I do my best to hang onto his memory. I cling to it like a security blanket. Slowly, bit by bit, we are stripped of our humanity. Each day, his memory becomes more and more vague, until he’s nothing more than a dream.
A dream that promises to save me. A dream who swears he’ll keep me safe. A dream that says he loves me…
* * *
Gentle hands shake me awake. “Come on, sweetheart,” the voice in my dream says. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.”
I don’t want to wake up. I’m happiest when I’m dreaming of the blue-eyed boy who tells such sweet, sweet lies.
“Wake up, love. You’re okay,” the voice coaxes. Consciousness prickles, but I resist. I push it aside so I can stay surrounded by the pretty lies. “Come back to me, Rosie,” the voice croons as gentle hands stroke through my hair and down my neck.
I jerk out of sleep, instantly awake. Rosie. No one calls me that anymore. None of us kept our names after we were moved to Red House. The Grants gave me the name Tessa. We weren’t allowed to speak our real names under the threat of being beaten. When I escaped, I took my name back. It became a mantra for me. I would repeat, “I am Amara Rose Thompson” over and over again.
“Are you okay?”
“I—I don’t think so.” I shake my head, nervous.
I study Matthew’s face, trying to see what my subconscious somehow already knew. Somehow, this man is the boy I’ve been dreaming of for years. If he’s the boy from my dreams, that means that my dreams are memories, and Matthew isn’t just some good Samaritan stranger.
The Grants did their best to make sure I thought I was crazy. Those first weeks I would wake up screaming and crying for the boy—Matty. His name is right there in the forefront of my mind. As I look into the worried blue eyes of the man who saved me from Damon, I can’t keep from seeing the impossible, the boy from my dreams.
All these years, I thought that my brain created my dreams as an escape. A coping mechanism. Something to keep hope alive within a hopeless situation. Instead of dreaming about the brave prince rescuing the princess, I dreamed up a blue-eyed boy to be my hero.
My hero. I’ve thought of the boy in my dreams as my hero, and from the moment Damon pushed me into Matthew’s arms, I’ve thought of him as my hero.
