You Even Haunt My Sleep...

Last night, amongst less important dreams of inexplicable, vivid strangeness, I was blessed and cursed enough to see your face again.

I've dreamt about you twice now. Twice. I don't understand how this keeps happening.

You and I were little girls, wearing those pink hats we loved so much. Our clothes matched, as they often did, and we were playing on the slide. You know, the slide. The red and blue and yellow one that every single one of us kids adored.

The others were there, too, but they didn't play. No, they stayed off in the distance, barely watching us, their own lives consumed by more important things. But I was entranced by your words--though I can't remember them now--and I tried my best to emulate your every move. That's the way it always was, back when we were little.

Maybe if I'd listened to you more when we got older, you'd still be with me.

And I know all my mimicking irritated you. I wanted to be just like you. I wanted everything you had, because you were bright and perfect and beautiful. Even as a kid, I could see the differences between us.

We played with Playdough in the dream, too. Your hands never shook as you created thousands of tiny, intricate designs, but my fingers trembled and my work was never quite as good. My hands still shake, did you know?

No, you wouldn't know. What a stupid question.

Throughout the dream, I watched in horror as we aged, each era of my life spiraling by. Childhood, awkward middle years, adolescence--you handled every epoch with a grace I couldn't have ever achieved. I crawled into my own skin, determined to endure those darker days and emerge from the tunnel with a smile on my face.

Your smile, on the other hand, lit up your tunnel, and you didn't just endure hard times. You skipped and sang your way through them.

No one was immune to your charm. Adults who barely knew you bragged of your successes, and we looked at you with pride in our eyes. A step above the rest was always your position and the ambitions they had for you were designed only for people of your particular caliber.

I was jealous. I was resentful. I've already said that such feelings were a waste of time, and my opinion on that has not changed.

The dream went on. I dreaded its end, knowing exactly where it would take me. I eventually reached this age, this time, and you did too--but we were no longer connected. The ties once forged between us were severed; nothing was left of the relationships you'd spent a lifetime creating.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I was dreaming. I knew that I'd already felt this pain, that as soon as I woke up I would be free to live without the chains of your betrayal on my wrists.

Ha. There is no escaping these chains. I can flip your picture and scribble out your name, but nothing is strong enough to remove your face from my memory. It's as if the image had been deeply etched into a chalkboard. I can't erase it, and if I try to scratch it out, the only result is a terrible, torturous, unforgiving screech.

The kind no one can stand to hear without feeling pain, anger, and fear.