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Chapter Two: An awakening
I woke with a start. Looking up I saw my mother, a small woman with a tiny waist and slender legs, looming over me. Her small hands were tugging impatiently at my duvet with long, narrow fingers. Her face was wide at the cheekbones and thin at the chin, her forehead high, her upper lip short and her lips were speaking my name. Loudly. Angrily. Slightly tilted, her nose was a little too small for her face. She had emerald green eyes like a cat and black eyebrows like Chinese brush-strokes, not unlike my own (the only thing I had inherited from her) and her thick, shiny, dark hair reached to the middle of her back. But she was very small, not more than five feet tall yet she towered over me as I groaned and sat up trying to recall the dream I had just awoken from.
It was like trying to see through mud; the harder I tried to hold onto the memories the more they slipped away. It was dark in the dream, I remembered, the only light was coming from the houses across the river.
The river!
Suddenly it all came flooding back like the water I had jumped into, filling up my brain and making it my sole thought. The river, I had jumped into the river. But why? In the dream I had never questioned my motives. Subconsciously, it seemed, I had known what I was doing and why. Now, in the bright daylight of my room, now that the thick curtains had been opened and the bright sunlight was pouring into my room, the idea of voluntarily flinging my body into the water seemed ludicrous, especially seeing as I was partially hydrophobic. I shied away from any contact with large masses of water such as swimming pools.
Or rivers.
So why had I done it? It may have had only been a dream, but it had felt so real.
I had always hated dreams, ever since I was about seven and had my first really bad nightmare. I had dreamt that my half crazed father was chasing me along the cliffs near a beach we had once visited when he was still alive. Brandishing his axe and waving his walking stick high in the air he advanced menacingly upon me, almost in the way he had done whilst he lived. I hadn’t been able to sleep in my own bed for months after that. That was irrational. He had been gone for a year or so before that, I just couldn’t shake it from my mind and as a result the nightmare continued to return. Many nights I would wake, drenched in icy sweat with tears streaming down my face. I was scorned by my mother who had convinced herself this was merely a cry for attention. As far as she was concerned, this particular plea for consideration wasn’t worth listening to.
I ignored her. What was the point of pleading with her if she didn’t believe me? I knew I wasn’t imagining it. It all seemed real to me.
I guessed that was the reason I didn’t like to dream – that difficulty to distinguish between your imagination and reality. I wasn’t very good at it and that was what scared me. What if I decided to do something dangerous thinking it was a dream and then discovered afterwards when it would inevitably be too late? If it was up to me I wouldn’t dream at all. Not even the good ones. It just wasn’t right, it didn't seem like a natural phenomena.
I had done everything I could to avoid dreaming and after hours of persuading, the doctor had prescribed some drugs that would calm my dreams, make them seem easier to deal with. As the doctor had pointed out, no one could completely avoid dreaming. It was a natural part of human nature and it became a sign of madness for those who didn’t. The drugs, he had informed me, would make my dreams seem hazy, like watching an old movie or looking through a dirty window. They would be less potent and seemingly less powerful. I had agreed instantaneously and as a result had been on these mind numbing drugs for the past year or so. I had thought them to be working up until the past two weeks when some dreams had slipped through. Ordinary, mundane dreams, the sort you would expect from a teenage girl. Yet somehow they were different, more powerful. Forceful. Last night’s had been so strange, so surreal in comparison to all the others.
I was awoken abruptly from these thoughts by my mother’s sharp tone.
‘Your sister is on the phone,’ she snapped, ‘Wants to speak to you.’ With that retort she flung the sleek black phone down onto the bed and stormed from the room.
My mother and sister did not get on. Megan was seven years older than me and had left home at sixteen. That had broken whatever tense relationship the two of them had had. Now, the only way they would speak was if they were forced to, yet Megan still called every week to check how I was and I loved our talks more than anything. It brought my whole mood up. She meant so much to me. I liked to think I meant that much to her too, although deep inside I knew there was no way this could be true. She had always been popular and found it easy to make friends.
She lived with her dad in a little flat about two hours away from me. I often wondered how much she could really care about me, considering the amount of time we spent apart. She would always reassure me that this was not the case; she could simply not afford to visit very often, as her job did not allow many days off and the amount of overtime she was working to get extra money just couldn't be given up. Even so, I missed her terribly.
From the moment I could talk, Megan had been my best friend. I was the one she would go to and whisper all her problems to, she confided in me, and that made feel special. When Megan had left home I had begged her to take me with her. My tear filled eyes fighting back the fear, the worry as I knew I would be lost without her but she had no money to support herself, let alone a nine year old sister. So she had gone. Without a backward glance, promising me we would still see each other all the time and that as soon as she could drive, I wouldn’t be able to get rid of her. So much for that idea.
The thing I had tried to remind myself about Megan’s promises was that she rarely remembered them. Such as her promise that she would phone me every evening, and see how I was. I still waited patiently, each night for her to call. I would sit and wait for hours, not accepting that I wouldn’t be speaking to her that day. The calls had narrowed down to barely once a week now, and even then I couldn’t be sure my big sister wasn’t too busy for me. I had to take every opportunity to talk to her that I was presented with.
I reached sleepily for the phone and put it to my ear. ‘Hello?’ I mumbled intelligently. A bright voice sounded on the edge of the phone.
‘Hi, Ashling!!’
I smiled drowsily; she was in a bouncy mood. All my resent and negative feelings toward her melted every time she opened that stupid mouth. It was impossible to be mad at such a loving person. Besides, as I constantly tried to remember, she lived a different life now and I couldn't expect to be her number one priority.
'You're happy,' I noted laughing.
‘It’s only a week until I see you' she replied excitedly, 'I bet you can't wait?’
'Nope.'
This wasn't exactly true. I loved spending time with Megan but whenever she came to visit she seemed somehow detached and distracted from what was happening. I couldn't help but wonder if she was really happy. Whenever I asked she would reply with certainty that she was fabulous and that I was just being paranoid. Today however, she seemed genuinely happy to be seeing me. It was my birthday the next week and she had promised whole-heartedly to come and spend the weekend with me.
My birthdays had never been a big event to me. Although I loved having everyone around, I wasn’t keen on being the centre of attention. Days never revolved around me, and I was used to that, it made me uncomfortable to be sat there with everyone’s eyes on me. I had always been the quiet one, the one who hung around with people who overshadowed me. Nobody tended to notice when I was there, I was always the extra person in the background.
That was how I liked it. Like a fly on the wall. Seeing but never needing to be seen.
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I glanced at the clock for the third time in less than ten minutes. The thick, black hands informed me that it was still half past six. Where was she? I twisted my pale hands together in my lap, it was freezing cold but I wouldn’t move from my place by the window to turn on the heating. The sky outside was darkening rapidly now, the sun was receding behind the trees, dictating that night was arriving. She was three hours late. Somewhere downstairs, I could hear the phone ringing softly. It was probably some sales company, they usually rang at this time, and we never picked up.
The first stars were appearing now, dotted around the sky like tiny diamonds against the sky. I stared up at them, entranced by their beauty, my eyes lost in the night. The street lamps below gleamed eerily below my window.
I sighed and checked my phone.
Nothing.
Reluctantly I got up and drew the curtains; there was no sense in waiting any longer. It was uncomfortable kneeling on the hard floor and I had been there for well over an hour. I pulled on my thick woollen jumper and an extra pair of socks just for good measure then made my way down the stairs.
Passing the counter in the kitchen my vision was immediately drawn to the tiny, red, flashing light that indicated a new message on the answering machine. I pressed my finger down hard on the button. The message had been from a few minutes ago, the called I had automatically assumed was nobody of importance. I recognised the voice that spoke at me through the machine instantaneously.
‘Ashling? Are you there? It’s Megan. Please pick up.’
A long pause followed.
‘I can’t make it love, I’m sorry but something’s come up and I’ve got to go somewhere else. Can you ring me back? I’m really sorry and have a great birthday tomorrow. Okay, bye?’
I stared, transfixed as the machine notified me of the Megan’s phone number. Hesitantly, I reached my hand out over the redial button, lingering over it. Still not removing my eyes from the little red light I suddenly and impulsively yanked my finger down and pressed the button below.
Message erased, the monotone voice announced. I shook my head, wrenching my eyes from the light that was no longer flashing. I turned on my heel and strode toward the hall. I grabbed my boots and a coat and tugged the door handle sharply, then, pulling my hood over my head I stormed out of the door and into the dark night.
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Read Chapter Three
