Against Reason

Chapter Four - Bad Dreams

The room is still, frozen, the only light emitting from the time on the alarm clock bedside me reading 5:24am. 

It was just a nightmare. But it wasn't just a nightmare. It was my own, it was real. 

Falling back onto my dampened pillow, I play the nightmare over in my head. The smell of the dust, the small pipe that dug into my back as I concealed myself into the dark corner as much as possible. I toss around, flashbacks popping up every-time I shut my eyes. 

I yank the covers off me, giving up as I fail to fall back to sleep. The fresh air provides a cool breeze to my heated body, drying the layer of sweat that glistens all over. 

I hold my head in my hands, my fingers gripping onto my locks of hair. The remainder of the nightmare - memory - playing over and over like a radio song. 

It's over. You're safe, mums safe, Nicks safe. It's okay now, we got out. 

"My god," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach, the remnants of the memory sending a single electric shiver down my spine.

I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep. Not after that.

Getting up, I quietly open my bedroom door, sneaking down the hallway and down the oak stairs. The old brownstone is settled in silence as the sleepy moon casts its final light over the dimly lit kitchen, saying his final goodbyes before he lays to rest for the new day. 

Still tip toeing, I make my way to the breakfast room, adjacent to the kitchen. Bright sunlight that normally blasts through the floor to ceiling windows is replaced with the night darkness, my eyes only able to make out the silhouettes of the large trees out in the back yard. 

Opening the fridge, I squint my eyes from the sudden bright light that illuminates the dim kitchen. I grab a cool bottle of water and chug half of it, moisturising my dry mouth. 

I don't normally dream about my early childhood. Not compared to the constant nightmares I had when I was a teenager. Some nights I'd wake up screaming, thrashing about until my mum or David ran in. Their comforting arms and sweet nothings were the only thing that could calm me down back then. 

I've grown now, healed more from the rough early years of my life. Doesn't mean it doesn't haunt me, the dire memories lurking in the shadows as they creep up my neck and down my spine. 

Except, this nightmare wasn't even close to being the worse one i've had. But it still makes my stomach churn, and my skin crawl with uncertainty. I still get these nightmares and when I do, it's fucking awful. 

Walking over, the floorboards bend at my light pressure, tip toeing over to my easel I set up yesterday. I take my seat on the metal stool, the chilled leather shocking my legs before It settles.

Painting. My getaway. My therapy. 

Everyone has their own way of relieving pain, stress or ways of healing. Some fall into reading, work towards a career through hours of college and papers. 

Me? Art. It's the fire that flames my soul.

Ever since I was four i've loved art, from sticking my hands in paint pots and dragging them along the crisp white canvas. Scribbling with pencils and markers on anything that was a blank white canvas. Those blank canvas's being walls. 

I remember when I fell in love with art, all because of our old neighbour Mrs Mimi. She use to babysit Nicky and I when my mum would work. Mrs Mimi was the grandma Nicky and I never had, but always wanted. 

Yet she always said she was our true granny - we were her grandchildren in her eyes. Mrs Mimi was a kind lovely woman, living alone in the apartment across the hall from us, widowed with no kids or family members.