Sweet Dreams

Prologue

10 years before our story begins . . .

     The Floridian summer day was just as it always was. The sun shone painfully bright and hot, heating the pavement beneath the populace's feet, so much so that waves of heat could be seen emanating from the street. Palm trees swayed in the light breeze and the salty smell of sea brine was held suspended in the air. Youth ran along the cobbled boardwalk, some on skateboards, roller-blades, or bikes. Families strolled with their children, some smiling while others frustrated. The elderly leisurely sitting on benches, having a cold drink at a cafe, or walking along. Tourists and residents alike carrying out their lives as per the norm.

     Among the throngs of people, though, one lone woman could be seen running frantically. Remaining unnoticed somehow and easily passing between groups of people -- almost as if she were in a small world separate from the rest, all obstacles before her moving out of the way and creating a path as if orchestrated by the universe itself. The young woman, seeming to be in her early twenties and of Hispanic ethnicity, pumped her muscles to their limits. Jeans and blouse sprinkled with what seems to be flour. Her sneaker clad feet barely even resting on the pavement as she had found her pace and sprinted down the street, her long, dark hair flowing behind her, buffeted to and fro in the wind created by her pace.

     Ignoring the curb, except as a springboard of sorts, she launched herself into the street; the opposite side the only thing in her sights. Little did she know that speeding down the parkway was a Ford pick-up, its driver intoxicated far beyond legal limitations. 

     The screech of tire treads permeated the air. Finally she is noticed; her form lying motionless meters away, face frozen in a an expression that seemed to say "I couldn't make it."

    I awake abruptly from my slumber, a harsh ringing in my ears and a clawing pain in my throat. My nighty is wet with my sweat.  It isn't until the door is thrown open moments later, a man and woman sillouetted in the light of the doorway, that I realize I am screaming. My father enters first, eyes darting from corner to corner, then my mother follows behind him, rushing to my side. My screams have, by then, become strangled sobs.

     "Menina," My mother coos the Portuguese word for girl, the familiarity of her voice and native language soothing me, "What's wrong? What has happened?"

     I look up from where I am cradled in her chest to her face, my tears blurring the image of high cheekbones, tanned skin, and copper eyes I knew so well. As I gaze up at her, the details of the dream escape my memory, leaving behind a sense of unease and sorrow.

     "Um pesadelo, a nightmare," I translate in English on behalf of my father who had come to sit on the end of my bed beside my mother.

     "It must have been horrible to have you screaming like that," my mother whispers down to me in her thick accent, "Will you tell me what happened in it?"

     I furrow my brows and bow my head forward, giving a small shake of my head, "I don't remember."

     My father leans forward and places a hand on my neck, his thumb passing under my eye, erasing the tear tracks on my cheek.

     "Come on," he sighs as he stands, grabbing me under my arms and lifting me into his own, "Come sleep with chichi to haha tonight."

     I smile at the Japanese  in his sentence and hug his neck, nodding into his shoulder. 

     "But first let's give you a bath and change your clothes," he wrinkles his nose pointedly and I laugh away the final thought of the dream.

* * * * * 

     "I hate dodge-ball," I grumble as I sit on the stands, glaring at my lap and twisting the hem of my grey P. E. shirt. It has been over a week since that night, but today the feeling of dread had come back. All morning I had been acting slightly off due to that one small emotion, but I could not pin-point the reason.

     As I glare at the small freckle on my thigh I hear the 'thunk' of a person catching the ball followed by the instructor's bellowing voice.

     "Tsukino!" she yells in her abnormally deep voice. The older students have told me its because she takes testosterone, whatever that is.

     "Yes, Ms. Bryan," I say, pulling down the bottom of my gym shorts.

     Stepping onto the court I am stopped by a boy with sandy blonde hair. His outstretched arm mere inches from my chest.

     "Who says you can play on our team, Alien?" Ever since we learned that the word didn't only apply to little green men from Mars, he's taken to calling me this based on my foreign features.

     "Who says I'm on your team," I take a quick step forward, closer to his arm, and he pulls back, stumbling away from me.

     You dummy, I snort, if you're afraid of getting cooties don't try acting tough.

     I continue past the division line to the side my team is on, turning around just as the whistle is blown to restart. The fact of the matter is, I turned my face into a ball that was thrown at me. I land on the ground, my vision spinning between  scenes and faces. A furious instructor, a sandy haired boy with a face full of regret, and a pair of bloody hands. Only a few seconds were left to me to see these things before my world turned black.

* * * * *

     Slowly, ever so slowly, I drift out of a completely void darkness and back to my senses. I see red, and am startled for a moment, but in my fright I open my eyes and realize it was only the light filtering through my eyelids. Keeping my eyes closed against the brightness, I feel a coarse blanket under my hands and notice a pungent smell that felt familiar. After a moment of sifting through my addled mind, I pinpoint the memory. Antiseptics. I am in a hospital. Realizing where I probably was, I relaxed further. That is when I heard a soft sound to my far right.

     Turning my head and opening my eyes to narrow slits I saw my father sitting in a hospital chair, his head in his hands. 

     "Chichihiue?" I call to my father, my voice quiet.

     His head snaps up in relief but soon returns to his sorrow, only it seems even stronger than earlier.

     "What happened?" I ask in concern and anxiety. The unease from before has returned in strength.

     He looked up and managed to sob out, "Domitila"

     At the mention of my mother's name, a wall, some sort of mental seal, seemed to break and the memory of my dream came flooding back to me.

     The boardwalk.

     My mother running.

     The pick-up.

     And her death.

     I lay there, frozen for a few moments. No feeling came, no emotion. But then came a small, quiet whisper into my mind.

     She was running to come see me.

     Without sound or even a single movement of my muscles, tears began to leak from my eyes.