PREFACE
When I sleep, I dream; When I'm awake and stationary, I have no thoughts. I have the same dream for about two weeks, and then it would switch. Sometimes, I dream a dream for two months at a time. When I sleep, I don't choose what I dream about. Someone else does. I never thought anything of it, until I started dreaming of death. My last dream of death, was my death. Someone was trying to tell me something. Was my dreaming of death putting my life in danger, and pain in my life?
CHAPTER ONE
"Everything seemed so, familiar. Like, I was meant to be there, ya 'know. Just, it felt like it was home, but, it wasn't. My mom was there, and so was Jimmy and my dad. You were there, along with Kendra and Ryan. We were all having so much fun." I'd been talking to Andrea for a couple hours now. I was telling her, with many details, about my reoccurring dream I'd been having for a few weeks. Andrea was so fascinated by what I explained to her.
"All of the trees were draped in blankets of weepy leaves. The grass in the field whirled in the formation of the wind. But, what was weird, was that two little girls across the field were singing and jumping rope. I felt like I knew them, but, I don't remember ever meeting two little girls." Her and I were both lost in my words. " Nicki! Come down for dinner please!" My mom called. I was disappointed that I had to end my dream telling with Andrea, and so was she. "Hey, Andrea, I have to go, It's time for dinner. I will call you after and tell you the rest when I'm done. Oh, and remember, don't tell anyone, anyone, about my dream. Okay?" I said to her strictly. Andrea sighed with disappointment and we said goodbye.
I put the phone down and slid off my green and yellow comforted bed and sat on my floor. I opened the drawer of my nightstand and took out the mirror. I looked at myself, smiling. My black hair shined in my bedroom light. My features were so much like my dad. No one really saw the left half of my face, because my bangs were always covering it. I didn't want people to see it, the scar. I have along scar on the left half of my face. My mom would always tell me a different story on how I got it when I asked. Either it would be "You ran into a vehicle" or "A cat got angry at you" or maybe "You didn't know what scissors were at that age".
I don't remember anytime in my life when I was hurt and got a scar. But, then again, I have a terrible memory. Every memory I have up until I was nine is a blur. My dad died when I was nine. I wouldn't leave my room for about a week when he did. My mom would have to almost break down my door to give me food because I wouldn't open it. I would be sitting on my bedroom balcony staring into the forest that was mapped out in front me. My mom was one month pregnant with Jimmy before my dad died.
I laughed a brief "Ha" and put the mirror back in the drawer. When I hoisted my self up from the floor, I grunted. Although I was a track runner at my school, my muscles were still very sore. I started towards the stairs, but when I stepped out of my room, my little brother ran past me and knocked me into my door frame screaming "Weeeee! Zoom zoom!" I hit my right shoulder and side. Jimmy, my brother, and I got along, but we both had our differences. Like I don't like being pushed into my own door frame by a six year old boy. Jimmy stopped and turned around slowly. I stared at him and said, "Jimmy, what did I tell you yesterday? Don't run past my room like that. I keep hitting my shoulder on my door frame and it's starting to get really annoying." He looked at me apologetically and replied, "I'm thoory. I didn't mean to. I'm really thoory Nicki." He said through three missing teeth.
"It's fine. Just don't do it again, okay?" "I won't Nicki, I promithe." Jimmy said sweetly. He was always a suck-up whenever Jimmy knew he was in trouble. Jimmy smiled wide and ran down the stairs. I followed him slowly, watching my feet. When I got to the bottom, the aroma of steak, peas, and mashed potatoes danced around my nose. I smiled and dashed to the table. My favorite meal! When I sat down, there were four plates set out. My mom always sets a plate for my father, even though he's passed. My family and I don't usually conversate during dinner. My mom always said, "It's not polite to speak at the dining table. Your mouth is almost constantly full of food, and we should appreciate the meal by eating it, and not speaking and letting it get cold.".
