Return
She first appeared to me when I was nine.
I was dreaming I was wandering in the middle of a golden field. The surrounding sea of corn waved lazily in the soft breeze. My small, young hand ran over their ordinary yet beautiful heads as if they were made from gold and not the nutrients of the earth. I think I smiled. This was a magical dream.
Then someone called my name.
I looked up, tearing my wide, innocent eyes from the beautiful sight before me, and saw a young woman hurrying towards me. She saw my alarmed glance and desperately outstretched one of her hands, begging me not to turn away. She did not seem to fit in with the rest of my dream. The surrounding scenery was bright and sparkling; she was grey and her clothing was nothing more than dull, brown rags. Properly washed, her hair would have been golden – like the gold of the meadow we both were in – and not that drab brownish colour. But what stood out the most was the expression on her black-streaked face. She looked as if she had witnessed hell and discovered that was where she was to remain forever. I would never forget, even at the age of nine, her look of utter horror.
Her lips parted, moved, formed words which reached me on the whistling wind: “A child.”
That was about the time when I suddenly woke. The early morning sunlight streamed into my eyes, hurting them. I looked wildly around my untidy bedroom, searching for her pale face. Despite my relief, I was not comforted when I couldn’t find it. I felt she was waiting for me, hiding behind the lids of my eyes when I closed them. It was warm in my room, but my terror seeped like ice-cold water deep into my very bones. I pulled my duvet up to my chin, not only because I was so cold but also for some feeble protection. Tensely, I awaited her return. Hours slid into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. And finally, months into years.
Nine years later, she reappeared.
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“Miss. Robins, I would appreciate it if you stayed awake during my lessons.” The dry, humourless voice of Mr. Shank pulled me from my sweet dreams with a hard yank. I jerked my head up from my folded arms to see him looming over me, fixing me with a disapproving stare. The class tittered at my expense.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered, my cheeks flaming, “I-I didn’t mean…” I trailed off, my sluggish thoughts unable to find a good enough excuse.
“Not good enough,” he stated in a crisp, clear voice – almost as clear as the fact he had already decided my punishment. Sure enough he added: “Detention. Wednesday night.”
I tried not to groan. Mr. Shank’s detentions were infamous for being the most tedious and soul destroying waste of time anyone’s imagination could ever conceive. And I had just got myself one. Perfect.
I frowned and wrestled with my lips to keep them from pouting as he turned and strode back to the front of the classroom, ready to resume the enthralling lesson which sent me to sleep in the first place.
Next to me, Maya leaned close. Her eyes were fixed on the front of the classroom as she whispered to me: “I thought you were done for.”
I sent her a glare. “If you hadn’t noticed I just got a detention.” At her blank look I added: “From Mr. Shank.”
She shrugged, not at all sympathetic. Well, she wasn’t the one who’d have to stay behind on Wednesday and share his riveting company.
“You could have at least warned me,” I grumbled, turning back to see Mr. Shank writing something on the board.
“I did!” she protested, insulted. “You wouldn’t wake up. Anyway, it’s your own fault for falling asleep in the first place.” And with that she turned her attention to front of the classroom, literally giving me the cold shoulder.
I sighed and started to copy down whatever Mr. Shank was writing.
I did not fall asleep because of Mr. Shank; well, I suppose he was partly responsible. Last night I hardly had any sleep. The reason being I had a nightmare. Of her. Her face was exactly as I remembered it. She did not look horrified, she looked… No, I can’t describe her expression – it was made up of too many different emotions. I had noticed something else about her I am not sure I saw when she first appeared. She was beautiful. Delicate, aristocratic features. High, golden eyebrows arched over eyes as blue and beautiful as gems. Her skin was smooth and unflawed, even if it was grey. Her hair was long but still the same dull brown colour. Tall and slim, and not that much older than I was, she would have turned everyone’s heads.
What was she doing in my dreams? I didn’t know her, didn’t recognise her as someone I’d seen when I was awake. I knew she wasn’t something my imagination had made up, she was real. She had once been alive.
I frowned. How did I know that? She’d only said three words to me: my name, and ‘a child’. So why did I assume she was dead? A crazy thought, but I knew deep down I was somehow right.
How was that for an excuse? So sorry, sir, last night I had a nightmare of a dead person calling my name and I couldn’t get back to sleep. That’s why I’m so tired in your lesson. I didn’t think he would believe me, no matter how frightened I was. And I was terrified. For all I knew she was the Grim Reaper’s prettier replacement and was coming for me. Death was calling to me. That was a thought powerful enough to stop you from leaving your house forever, let alone stop you from falling asleep lest It swoops down upon your vulnerable, dreaming soul.
Great. I doubted I would ever go back to sleep. I was doomed to only falling asleep in Mr. Shank’s exciting lessons and forever receiving Wednesday detentions as punishment for catching a second’s worth of shut-eye. Although I had only seen her twice, I feared and hated this young woman. I hated her because of the fear she stirred in me. I feared her because I knew nothing about her and I was left only with my imagination. An imagination that made me wish I was without it. Well, perhaps I was wrong in thinking I knew nothing. I knew one thing. I knew she would not wait another nine years before reappearing once more.
I knew she would come back.
Soon.
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On Tenses: As per Rosey's point, I found the switch in tenses to be extremely counter intuitive, and it threw me quite a bit. Even more than this, though: I thought that the first part written in the past tense worked far more for the style of the story than the second bit. The detachment achieved from the third person perspective adds a stylistic element to your story that is virtually non-existent in the second part. I think that the past tense fits your story way more than the present tense does.
But seriously maybe I'll get more into it....I'm going to read some more of this.
). Well, on to the review!
