Cold Hearts in The Rain

Chapter 2

I despised dreaming in the two ways you can dream.

The first way is the dreams you encounter while sleeping. Mine were usually never pleasant. They always revolved around me staring at the car my parents died in as my mom and dad thrash inside, trying to escape the fire, to no avail. I always wake up breathless and haunted. Their presence looms in the air around my room, making it heavy.

But that's not the worst of it.

The worst of my dreams come from when I can see their eyes as the life slips out of them. I'm usually close to the car when this happens. My parents are screaming for me to open the door, and I frantically try, but my hands always get burned. I look back at them, as they thrash, making me feel sick, and their eyes grow lifeless; their faces melt off while they're screaming.

I realized the screams are mine when I wake up, still screaming. Without fail I'd feel their haunting presence in the room, which always caused me to turn on the lights, and hug my knees to my chest, rocking myself back and forth.

When I shake off the feel of the dream—or should I say nightmare—I realize that my parents are still dead, and I'm still alone. Why was I always so afraid of them in my dreams, when that's the only time I'd ever see and talk to them?

But still, that's not the worst of it.

In fact, the worst of it is the best of it. It's when I dream that they're still alive.

I'm usually at home, eating dinner with them, as we talk about our day. Everything about these dreams were so real that when I woke up in my room at my grandma's house, I'd be confused. Maybe we are visiting. But then... Why do I have my own room?... Oh.

Knowing that my parents were actually dead made me hurt the most. It made my heart cringe in my chest, my stomach to tighten, and my eyes to grow wet with tears—but I never cried over those dreams. I cried too much when they died and I promised not to feel from then on forward. Besides, it was a stupid dream; it wasn't worth crying over.

But those aren't the only dreams I had.

I had real dreams... dreams of who I aspired to be. I'd grow up and write fiction novels and find success as a writer. Then, I'd marry my boyfriend and everything would perfect.

What bull-crap. I had a stupid view of the future.

Those dreams were the stupid things that shaped me. But then that all came crumbling down. I didn't even know who I was anymore; I wasn't in touch with myself.

All I knew was that it didn't matter. I wasn't going to live past 16.

***

Why am I even going to school? I might as well just go to that cliff right now and end my life.

My grandparents decided that I had enough break time from school after my parents' death. They gave me the option to start the day after they had announced they thought I was ready to go back, or in another week, but no later. I'd end up failing if I waited too long.

I don't remember my outfit. I don't remember the walk to school, and I certainly don't remember the classes. I just remember the boy. The same one I saw that day on the cliff was eating lunch with his friends, hood still on. I stood there, clutching the tray of food in my hands as our eyes caught.

I couldn't read his eyes and he definitely wasn't going to read mine. My emotions were sealed off from everyone.

I guess he was the same way.

What if he tells his friends that I attempted to commit suicide? What if he gets the guidance counselor? I really don't need that.

Instead of him going to whisper to his friends and point at me like I thought he would, he waved. Yet again, he managed to catch me by surprise. He gave the faintest smile while doing so and all his friends looked at me. I snapped my head away from them and hurriedly walked on to find an empty table.