Just A Dream: A Short Story: Just A Dream

“Mom!” I yelled, bolting upright in my bed. Trails of sweat dripped from my forehead, and my torso rose and fell in a rapid succession. I peered into the darkness of my room, ushering my eyes to adjust to its dark tone. I leaned my back against the wooden headboard behind me and held myself in my arms. “Just a dream. Just a dream.” I murmured to myself repeatedly. I reached my hand to the left side of my bed, and fumbled my appendage aimlessly in the drawers that lay there until I was able to retrieve my spectacles. I slid the metallic frame over my ears. The blurred hues that lay before me instantly became sharp, defined objects. All the furniture, posters, figurines, and other various objects attributed to my room were exactly as they were

My arms were stretched forward, directly in front of me, providing me with the only perception of depth I had at the moment. “K-Keep talking to me, Mom! Don’t stop talking!” I cried, my tone overtaken with a desperate sob. “Okay, Ema. I’m right here, just come to the door. We need sleep, we’re going to see your father tomorrow.” There was facade of cheerfulness in her voice, but it did not matter. I just wanted her communicate with me. She was my only beacon of light in this sea of trauma. “Are you almost at the door?” “I don’t kno-” Suddenly that same metallic silver that I previously encountered flooded my sensory nerves. “Yes! I’m here, Mom!” I yelled as I threw open the door and embraced my mother with a tight hug. I could see her. I could see everything now. The lighthouse shine of the moon. The stillness of my furniture, my posters, figurines, my room, everything now in full view. I buried my head into the crook of my mother’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m here now. It was just an enemy.” She cooed, stroking my hair comfortably. “It was so real. So vivid this time, Mom.” I replied, a new wave of tears flowing once more from the aqueducts of my

“Okay.”

When I awoke the next morning, I snatched my glasses and quickly sprung out of bed. For all thirteen years of my life I have not once met my father at an age that I could remember him. The oldest I have been by his side was at five years, and I can barely remember what I ate for dinner last night. With a bursting excitement, I slid into a new change of clothes and made my way into the washroom, where I quickly refreshed myself.

“Mom! Are we leaving soon?” I shouted as I climbed down the staircase. I found her in the kitchen finishing the last bites of a breakfast sandwich.

“Now,” she swallowed, “we’re leaving now, go start going to the car.” My teeth flashed in pure joy. I began running to our van, not once stopping to dwell on food. As I heaved myself into the passenger seat, I took a moment to look into the mirror adjacent to the car door. There was nothing. I smiled once more, and my mother and I were off.

The car ride was mainly silent. My jubilant mood had quelled itself down, as my experience from the night before began to sink its way back into my mentality. I attempted to distract myself by starting a conversation with my