They always seem so real. Not so real that when I wake up I’m like “Crap! I didn’t just meet Taylor Lautner?” I mean so real that I can’t even tell them apart from my waking life. Half of my memories are complete frauds.
I don’t know whether I’ve been to Florida, or whether I’ve sprouted wings and flown over Mount Everest. I don’t know whether I’ve had a pizza topped with chocolate chips and peanut butter, or whether I’ve hula-hooped with a giant’s hoop earring.
And no matter where I am when I fall asleep--at home in my own bed; camping in a tent; at my desk on half-finished homework--at the end of my dream, I always get back there somehow and go to sleep. It’s infuriating.
It didn't take long for me to figure out not to bring up my dreams. Or volunteer any information of my past really, considering I can’t tell the difference between reality and non-reality.
I think you can imagine how hard it is when a teacher gives an assignment, and I have to tell about a personal experience. I literally have to ask my mom for a memory to use.
Of course, my little sister Teddy thinks this hilarious. Teddy’s eleven; two years younger than me, and the smart aleck of the century. It’s no wonder my excruciating-moment quota has gone up 79 percent since she became smart enough to use my dream thing against me.
And she really is a pretty smart kid--either that or my parents are really, really dumb. I’m not trying to be disrespectful or anything, but they only found out because of Teddy, who had known months before.
Since then I’ve been taken to several doctors and shrinks. They dismissed it as merely an overactive imagination. Thus, the dream journal was born. A dream journal, the ultimate cliché, I know. Everyday I have to report to mom and check that what I wrote down was just dreams and not reality, and vice-versa.
But my leather-bound cliché hasn’t helped. Teddy suggests that they should put me in a straitjacket and lock me in one of those white, padded rooms. Cute kid, huh? The fact that she mentions at the same moment that my room would be empty and she would only be so willing to take it is just a coincidence, right?
Well, with all this, I can’t help but think that I was in just another dream.
It all started one morning, when I woke up from yet another ultra-realistic dream.
I was forced to cliff-dive off of the mouth of an active volcano into the boiling lava below. The instant my finger touched the molten rock, it turned into a thin layer of ice, which I crashed through into freezing water. I was so cold, so stiff, I could barely move. Chains shot from the infinite depths and wrapped around my ankles. They pulled me to the bottom, through a drain, as though in a bathtub. I emerged in my room, completely dry. I dove into the purple comforter and fell quickly asleep.
And woke up. Typical.
I kicked back my blanket, sat up, and slid into my fuzzy bunny slippers. I grabbed my toiletry bag before crossing the hall and entering the bathroom. After shutting the door, I locked it.
The toiletry bag and lock are both necessary precautions when you have to share a bathroom with a little sister who is foreign to privacy and has no respect for other’s stuff.
I splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, and swept a comb through my wavy ginger hair, which reached just below my chin.
Several loud bangs came from the door. “Meg, open up! You’ve been in there forever!” came Teddy's voice.
“I’ve been in here ten minutes.” I called back before shoving my stuff back into it’s bag. Teddy started banging again as I flicked the lock, and opened the door.
“About time.” Teddy said before hurrying into the bathroom to do whatever it was that took her an hour every morning. Sometimes longer on a weekend, like today. Saturday.
I sighed, exasperated, before heading back to my room. I stripped my pajama shorts and tee. In their place I put knee-length jean shorts, purple and orange layered tank tops, and I slipped into my sneakers. To top it off, I stuck a cap on my head and my favorite bracelet on my wrist.
My bracelet consisted of multicolored beads strung on leather string. It‘s the kind of thing you saw kids making at summer camp.
I made my bed as I do every morning--lest I provoke the wrath of mom--and straightened my dream catcher--but one of many failed attempts to stop my dreaming problem.
I grabbed my backpack, tossed my dream journal in it, and plucked my lucky coin off of my desk. I headed out the door, towards the kitchen.
“Good morning Megan Marie.” my mom called in an awful sing-song voice, as she flipped a pancake. That is how she greeted me every morning. But of course that hadn’t started to get annoying…. It was way past that.
Over breakfast me and mom went through the usual routine: I tell her what’s happened in my dream and real life, she tells me which is which, then I write the dream half in my dream journal.
When I am done with breakfast I tell mom I’m going to the library, and head out. The library was about two hundred yards from my house, and I got there in a few minutes.
I checked my watch. 10:07, perfect. It should be just open.
I wasn’t a big fan of the library, décor-wise. I always thought that libraries should have wood floors, stone fireplaces, in front of which, overstuffed chairs. Cozy, you know?
But a while ago we moved to a new library which just doesn’t work for me. On the outside is gray paneling. On the inside was cold tile, metal shelving, and bright, modern-style chairs that weren't exactly plush.
But it worked… I suppose.
I walked up to the counter and started piling books from out of my backpack. Nancy, a twenty-something woman with bright orange hair, pulled back in a braid, was working at the counter. She smiled at me; I smiled back.
She didn't look like your typical librarian, but she loved what she did and it showed in her work. That's why out of all the librarians, she was my favorite.
I pulled my library card out of my pack and handed it to her. She went and picked some books off the shelve then plunked them down. Our library participated in this program where you could order books from any library in the program and they shipped them to the one closest to you. Today I got four.
Nancy read the titles aloud as she scanned them. “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows… Percy Jackson and the Titan’s Curse… Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince… Brisingr…. Do I feel a theme here, Meg?”
“What can I say? Fantasy’s my new thing.” I placed the books in my bag.
I walked over to one of the computers the library had and sat down. I clicked open the internet and checked my email. Junk mail, junk mail, I highly doubt I’m the one millionth visitor, junk mail. I scrolled down and found an email from Brent, a kid I met at camp.
Dear Meg,
How’s it hanging? Any more freaky dreams? Knowing you, of course. What they about this time? I once had a dream where I was dressed up as a giant banana and a gorilla kept trying to eat me.
Nothing new is really happening. Hope you have something better to say.
Your wicked-awesomeness (you know it’s true), Brent
I responded by telling him about my dream in very close detail. Also about my recent addiction to fantasy books. Then I logged off.
I got up and turned around. The place was deserted, even by the librarians. All the lights were off and curtains were pulled over all the windows--curtains I didn’t know existed.
"Nancy... are you out there?" I called, a little spooked. I cautiously walked along the ends of the shelves, peering in the aisles. I half expected someone to jump out and yell Boo! No one did. I was alone.
Even with the cold decor I didn't like so much, the library had always had some sort of coziness to it, just for the fact that it was a library. But walking through it alone in the dark gave it an eerie feel. If this were a movie, this would be the part where a rat would scamper across the room, and a serial killer would jump out at me wielding a chainsaw.
After checking the bulk of the library, I looked in the back room, where the librarians had their break. When I found no one there, I decided that it was probably a dream. Dream or no dream, I had a bad feeling about that place.
I went back to the computer desk where I had left my backpack. I grabbed it, slung it over my shoulder, and turned to leave. One foot was forward, in a walking position, when I froze.
Two figures stepped out from the shadows. One of them spoke in a booming voice. “We have found you at last, Megan Marie Bell.”
To be continued...
Hey, well I don't know how long this is going to be. But just to warn you I am physically incapable of writing a short story. But I have been working on that. Hope you like it.
LOVE --ULTRAVIOLET
Gender:
Points: 1193
Reviews: 262