Dreamers (The Dreamers Series)

by Brooklin Skye

  I order the large Greek salad with extra feta and an iced tea. Heather orders a Gyro and fries with a Coke.

  As we settle into our meal, I decide it’s time for her to fulfill the set conditions. I want answers.

  “So, what happened last night? Why were you so hostile?” I ask, with an entirely too full mouth.

  She immediately looks uncomfortable.

  “We will talk about this once, because I want to make things right with you. After today, I want it to stay in the past where it belongs, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I promise.

  “It’s about Lana.”

  I lean into my knuckles, holding up my face as I listen attentively. “Okay, go on.”

  “She and I had a short fling, and it ended badly. That’s all.”

  “No honey, I don’t think so. You said you would explain. That is not an explanation.”

  Silence follows for what seems like ages, until she finally speaks. “She fucked with my head—a lot.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Well, everything started off fine. My mother asked if she could stay with me for a while so Lana could get on her feet. Since she was a friend of my mother’s, I agreed. She seemed normal enough—at first. Everything changed when she began tinkering with weird shit.”

  “What kind of weird shit?”

  “Ouija boards, tarot cards, having séances in my apartment—stuff I wanted no part of. That’s taboo shit that I don’t mess with, and it freaked me out.”

  “Did you tell her not to do it in the apartment?” I quiz.

  “Well, no—not at first. I was….preoccupied.”

  “By what?”

  She bites her lip nervously, as she continues. “This is embarrassing, Sydney.”

  “Awe, come on! You walked in on me naked. Don’t talk to me about embarrassment.” I lift my eyebrows smartly.

  “Fine. She started coming on—strong. I wasn’t really interested. She’s not really my type, ya’ know? Not to mention, if it had ended badly we were stuck. She lived with me.”

  “I know what you mean.” I listen attentively.

  “She was so damned cocky. I think she even commented that I was an idiot for passing her up. It got awkward. I still took no interest, so she worked harder for it.”

  “What do you mean she worked harder for it?”

  “She began playing games. Walking around half dressed, accidentally forgetting a towel when she took a shower, sabotaging the few dates I had by hanging all over me when I brought a girl home. One night, I had too many shots and she took advantage. She kinda…seduced me.”

  “Seduced you?” The corners of my lips lift slightly, aching to unleash a full outburst of laughter. The word seduce makes me think of cheesy G-string panties and thigh-high stockings. If I’m to keep a straight face, I will have to erase the image from my mind.

  “Yes, and we began dating--kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I wanted to get to know her better, on a relationship level; see if I could feel anything—she wanted something else.” She looks up at me over her dark-rimmed glasses, as her eyebrow raise slightly.

  “Ohhhh…bedroom friends,” I reply.

  “Something like that.” She continues slowly. “She started asking me to do weird things. I don’t want to go into details but she wanted me to—ya’ know…” Embarrassment paints her face red. “She asked me to get rough—hurt her.”

  “Hurt her? Like smack her around—kinky shit?” I smirk.

  “Try cutting, choking, burning—hardcore freak shit. I wanted to please her; I just couldn’t get into it. People like that just ain’t right.”

  “Honey, that’s not all that unusual; a lot of women are very adventurous,” I shrug casually.

  “No, it was more than just being adventurous. She was off her rocker, a fucking nut job.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Remember what I said about the séances and Ouija boards? Well, she stared withdrawing, staying in her room constantly, talking to herself—or someone else, as she claimed. She called him Dominick—the ghost in her room. She was obsessed with him. She thought the only way to be close to him was to inflict pain on herself—or have me do it. She was trying to bring herself as close to death as possible.”

  My mind whirls at the new information. This Lana character was either very disturbed mentally or something weird was going on in that apartment. Given the circumstances, I don’t really want to admit to Heather that this information regarding Lana is putting me on edge. This strange man in my dream—could it have anything to do with the things Lana was seeing? I try to force the thoughts away. It has to be a strange coincidence—very strange.

  “Did she have some type of mental problems? It’s kind of sad that she would go to such extremes for a fantasy.”

  “Sad?” She scoffs. “That crazy bitch almost had my ass thrown in jail.”

  “What! Why?” I ask, astonished by the thought of goody two-shoes Heather even coming close to jail.

  “When I refused to participate in her insane shenanigans, she became so desperate to be with him that she would hurt herself. Every day she had a new bruise, cut, or burn. People started noticing, and she told people I was the one hurting her. She filed a police report against me back in July. I had come home early, caught her choking herself with a belt in the living room. I called Aunt. When she got there, Lana told her I had tried to strangle her in a jealous rage because she was seeing someone else--complete bullshit, of course. Her Aunt called the police, and just like that I was cuffed and taken to the police station to be questioned, and Lana photographed. The police knew instantly that her story was bogus, the marks were clearly from a belt or flat object—not my hands. They released me and charged her with filing a false report. She was released a few days later, with a court date scheduled. By this point I’d had enough. Frankly, I couldn’t even believe she had the nerve to come back here. I told her to get her shit and get out. She apologized, crying that she couldn’t live without Dominick, claiming she had to do it, that if she had told the truth that they would take her away to a nut house and never let her get close to Dominick again. Out of courtesy I allowed her to stay and collect her things. That was a mistake—a big one. She tried to commit suicide that night.”

  “How?” I whisper, horrified.

  “She jumped out of your window.”

  “Jesus!”

  “She survived, but broke her back and neck. She went through physical therapy for a while, now she’s in a mental facility in New Orleans, getting the help she needs.”

  I just gawk at her, astonished and silent.

  “Yeah, crazy huh?” She pushes her food away, evidently having lost her appetite. “That’s why I flipped when you had the window opened. It was nailed it shut for a reason, Sydney. If anything ever happened to you…” She can’t even say the words.

  “I’m okay, really, but since we are being honest here, there are a few things I need to tell you about last night—about the window incident.”

  She watches my face cautiously as I speak, then cuts me off. “Let’s just drop it, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I did what I was supposed to do: I explained. I’m done with this conversation.”

  Her face becomes splotchy and red, as if she’s about to cry. That’s the last thing I want to do—make her cry. I have to change the subject—now. We can revisit this Lana conversation another time.

  “So, I have a question.” I twist the topic a full three-hundred and sixty degrees.

  She looks up with sad eyes, eager to move on from the somber talk. “Sure, what’s up?”

  I feel my face begin to warm, knowing my cheeks must be reflecting the blush buried behind my shy smile. “I was thinking earlier, about what it might be like to kiss a girl. What’s it like?”

  She looks stunned, as if I blasted her in the face with a water gun unexpectedly. “Uh…where did that come from?”

  “I dunno, I was ki
nda daydreaming, I guess. I’m curious,” I shrug casually.

  “Daydreaming about what, kissing a girl?” She laughs heartily.

  Embarrassment seeps in. I hide my red face behind a napkin.

  “Aww, I’m playing. Don’t get embarrassed.”

  “It’s just a question. Now, tell.”

  “Okay, well—it’s much different than with a guy, in many ways. Women are softer, and way more passionate. At least I am.”

  “In what way?” I begin twirling a loose piece of hair between my fingers.

  “Kissing is very personal. I like to feel my way around slow, memorizing every crease—every line on her lips. I like it to taste sweet, and wet—but not too wet. I take my time.”

  I squirm in my seat as I notice how her tongue hits her top teeth as she talks. Her eyes are fixated on my lips, sending a strange tingling feeling through my stomach.

  “I see.”

  “Why? Do you want me to show you?” she jokes.

  “Umm…that’s not what—I dunno—I was just saying—wondering…” I stammer.

  “Syd, I was joking.” She laughs loudly. “But, if you ever change your mind…”

  “Oh, shut up, fool!” I giggle. “Done eating?”

  “I’m done. Was your salad as nasty as it looked?” She gestures toward my near-empty plate.

  “It was simply awful. So disgusting, in fact, that I might have to come back tomorrow and get another one.”

  “That awful, huh?” She smiles.

  “No, it was great. Thank you for an awesome day, Baby Doll.”

  Her face flushes.

  “What?” I pick at her.

  She bashfully continued looking at her plate, never losing that shy sweet smile. “You called me baby doll. Nobody ever calls me stuff like that.”

  I shake my head playfully, and push up from the table. “Maybe they should—those pink cheeks are absolutely priceless.”

  She stands smoothly, anally pushing her chair in—perfectly aligned with the table legs, of course. “Let’s ditch the bill and run for our lives. That extra feta was fifty cents; I’m not sure I can pay the mortgage now.”

  “I’ll make it up in my rent, but I might have to save up for a few weeks,” I joke.

  She drops the money on the table to close the check, including an obscenely big tip for our waitress.

  “You must have thought she was really cute to leave a fifteen dollar tip.” I make a confused face.

  “Waitresses make less than three dollars an hour, and work harder than most executives making six figures. It’s not a bad thing to reward her for her hard work.”

  I suddenly feel petty and childish for my joke.

  “And FYI, I don’t know whether she was cute or not. The only person I see in this restaurant is you.” She extends her hand, and I accept gently. “Come home with me?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  She holds the door open, never letting go of my hand as we walk home from Athena’s Grill.

  In this moment, I know exactly what she meant. In the busy streets of Atlanta, population a billion, I see only one person—her.

  Damn, I’m in trouble.

  3

  A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

  I keep a strong hold on Heather’s hand as we walk, dragging her toward a small cemetery on the way home. The wrought iron gate is open, lined with a worn unpaved walking path. Most of the graves are void of fresh flowers, or any sign of a recent visitors at all. It could mean many things; either it’s very old and living relatives are distant, leaving the deceased forgotten. Or possibly this is a community of undesirable souls, never having felt love or warmth, leaving no loved ones behind. The imagination can only speculate the pasts of Earth’s former occupants. Whatever the case, I will tell their stories through my photography. That’s my job.

  A simply enchanting tree captures my eye, with beautiful swirling, black bark against a milky white foundation. The limbs droop with heavy dampened leaves—such a portrait of sadness, so wise and mysterious. I’ll bet this tree has stood witness to years of interesting history. Excitement bubbles from my chest as we make it towards the entrance.

  “Can we go in, pleeease?” I beg, knowing Heather will be reluctant.

  “Man! I knew it when we walked past on the way to the restaurant. You’re going to make me go in there.” She rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you take pictures of happy little children, weddings or something, like a normal person? I don’t wanna go in there—it’s creepy. You know I don’t like messing with dead people.”

  “Oh my god, Heather. We aren’t messing with dead people. I just like that tree over there, the one next to that headstone toward the back.” I point.

  “What exactly do you think is under that headstone near the tree? Something dead,” she smarts.

  “Oh come on.” I pull her against her will, forcing her to relent. “Stop being a baby.”

  “Fine, let’s just hurry up and get this over with. It’s cold out here, and the rain’s about to come in,” she whines.

  Heather leans against the tree I had my eye on, waiting impatiently for me to set my camera up.

  “Since you’re already standing there, I want to get a few of you. Is that okay?” I ask.

  She gives a consenting shrug. “Should I smile, or say cheese, or something?”

  “No, I want you to stand exactly as you are. Don’t pose, just do your thing.”

  I snap several shots over the course of about a minute or two. She continues to hold her body in a statue-like position, trying hard to remain still. She couldn’t possibly look any more unnatural. Knowing how impossible it will be to get her to relax, I toss a rock into a pile of leaves a couple of feet away, with the idea that her reaction will be fluid since she won’t see it coming. As it hits the ground she turns her head, with a serious and slightly concerned look. This easily prompts the natural reaction I was looking for. As expected, her face reflects fear, anxiety—slight panic. I pause, watching her as she gazes into nothingness; she’s so absolutely gorgeous. That shot is going to be brilliant.

  “Okay, Pouty-Longstockings, you’re done. I wanna get a few of just the tree itself.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice. I’m ready to get the hell out of here. Did you hear that sound?” she asks, still anxious.

  “Do you mean the noise I made by throwing a rock into those leaves?” I giggle and point toward the rock’s landing spot.

  “Why would you do that when I’m already creeped out?” She frowns.

  “You were being too uptight; I needed a natural reaction.” A teasing smirk paints my lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t let that scary rock hurt you.”

  “I wasn’t scared, I was just making sure it wasn’t an animal or something. I have a duty to protect a lady, ya’ know?”

  “Protect me from—a rock?” I joke.

  “Tigers...” She pauses, quickly concocting a tale. “Atlanta cemeteries have had quite a bad tiger problem lately. There were several attacks just last week. Didn’t you hear about it?” Her face glows ten shades of pink, as she lies.

  “Wow, you certainly get points for creativity. Tigers, indeed.”

  She looks back in the direction of the tree, completely uninspired. “Hurry up and take your pictures of the ugly old tree. Since you felt the need to make me piss my pants, I might need to get on home and change.” Her head shakes disapprovingly.

  “Move out of my way then. Let the tree show you how it’s done.” I move into photography stance.

  I squat as low to the ground as I can manage without falling into the dirt, shooting from every fathomable angle; eventually giving in to the moment, I roll flat on my back to get an upward shot of the tree climbing toward the gray sky. A rain drop falls into the part of my lips, making me smile. It tastes of fall. I close my eyes, basking in my euphoria. As I come back to reality, I feel her gaze on my face. She watches closely as I finish shooting, never taking her eyes off me, thoroughly enjoying my passion. As dreadfu
l as I must look—hair in the dirt, jeans muddy, t-shirt covered in loose leaves—I feel alive. I see myself, painted like watercolors upon her face.

  “Don’t move,” she orders.

  I obey, as she pulls the camera from my hands and immediately begins photographing my natural movements as I lie here in peace, just living—harmoniously among death.

  ***

  Our peaceful walk home is interrupted by a sudden onset of torrential rain.

  We race up three flights of stairs to reach the front door of the apartment. She opens the door quickly, as our teeth chatter in the freezing wind. A murky mixture of dirt and water drenches the foyer as our shoes drip.

  “Damn, we’re making a mess,” I comment, well aware of Heather’s OCD.

  “Lose the shoes, and your clothes. I’ll bring your robe.”

  Heather holds her jeans at knee level as she kicks her shoes out the front door. She disappears to her room first, quickly changing into dry clothes, then to my room, returning quickly with a towel and my fluffy, pink robe.

  “Turn around.”

  She obliges, but not without a smart remark. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen it’ before. It’s been what—a few hours?”

  The memory returns, prompting me to face what I hadn’t quite wanted to know before now.

  “Exactly how much did you see?” I ask cautiously.

  “Let’s just say that the list would be much shorter if you asked what I didn’t see.” She laughs.

  I wrap my robe around me, shielding myself from any further mishaps. I’m mortified, and not the only one feeling the awkwardness. As she always does, Heather stares at the floor to avoid eye contact, smirking.

  “You wanna have some hot chocolate and get comfy on the couch?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Do we have marshmallows? If I had known just how much of me you saw, I would have demanded a lot more than extra feta on my salad. You owe me big time. Marshmallows and…I will let you know what else I want later.”

  “Hey now, it’s my eyes who had to endure the sight of you. Not that it’s a bad thing, but I think I’m way more embarrassed than you. But to answer your question, yes, we have marshmallows. Be right back, princess. Hot chocolate with extra marshmallows coming right up.” Her bright red thermal shirt fades into the darkness as she inches closer to the kitchen.