I'll Be Fine

Sleep is for Suckers

Falling. Never-ending darkness. Where am I? When will this end?

The scene changes. I'm looking through the eyes of someone else-someone much older, wise beyond their years. Her years.

She's cradling a baby to her chest. The infant is no more than a few months old. She surveys the room around her before looking directly across the room; sitting on the wall, concealing part of the pink floral, peeling wallpaper, lies an antique clock. It chimes. Midnight. The infant starts coughing-a dreadful, hacking cough. Blood soon follows, soaking into the baby's onesie. It starts flowing, dripping, streaming through the child's ears, mouth, nose. A knife lies in its chest, straight through the small creature's heart. Pictures of the child adorn the walls, portraying a smiling baby surrounded by toys, cheer, and something else, something that can't be photographed: love.

The dying, if not dead baby is no longer in her arms. It's lying on the floor, mere inches away. The scene switches briefly. One of her collectible kitchen knives is missing from its spot in the drawer.

Scene switch. The aged woman, weeping over the small grave. No one would think to accuse her of committing the crime; Anna loved that child more than life itself. She's now alone, no longer surrounded by the black-clad funeral goers.

A younger, yet similar looking woman, comforting who is presumably Anna. Her daughter. Then the child was her granddaughter. By the way she grows weak, the way the light leaves her eyes and she grows frail, and deathly pale, I conclude it was Anna's first-born grandchild that lost its life. Her life zooms by, like the scenery outside of the window in a moving car. Hours blur into days blur into years.

I can tell from her-admittedly guarded-facial expressions that she can bear this no longer. She dies. Soon it's her own grave I'm staring at. But this isn't right. Everything is outdated; it could have been no later than the 1970's.

I jolt awake. I tremble, hunched over my bedsheets. A cold sweat coats my forehead and face. Who was that? Why did she look so familiar, when I know I've never seen her?

I try to put the dream out of my mind but am unable to. That lady...she murdered her own grandchild and the guilt lead to her own demise. Ate away at her until she felt nothing; emotionally and physically numb.

Who could do that to such a small being? It could've been no older than 4 months, but...

A text. Austin. I'm outside. Quietly sneak out your back door. You're in danger, Soph. You've just gotta trust me on this.

I shakily arise from my bed, untangling the sheets from my body, slipping on some tennis shoes and tip-toeing to the door. I peel it open-it's soundless, for once. I've not taken two steps towards the lawn when the door slams shut. A bag is placed over my head. It was already dark when I left my room-it was no later than 2 am-but now any visibility I had is gone. My voice is too strained and hoarse to cry out for help; perhaps I was screaming during the dream? Why, oh why, did I choose to trust him?

Someone help...