The early morning greets me with dried tears on my face. And my mother just sitting on the bedside again waiting for me to get up. “Memi...What can I do to make it go away?” she would always say stroking my face. With a smile I would just nod my head and shift to lay on her pan instead of the wet pillow. “Mija I am going to buy a whole truck of pillowcases or a bucket for you to sleep on.” Her attempt to lighten the air was always getting cringier as the days pass by. The fact that I never tell her what the dreams are was what worried her the most, I think. But how can I tell her that a man takes me in the night to collect his babes to part. It would not make sense and it would scare her to the point she might put me away.
Every morning the same. A frustrating battle to wake up with my mother’s bickering, a book in hand after a shower, and a silent read as I eat my breakfast before going to classes at 7. I choose early morning classes at a near by college because its more convenient to be out of the house. And by lunch I always go to the library to read about paranormal rarities. Most of the readings are just so unrealistic it cannot be believed by an infant. I tried to read every horror and mystery, fiction and non-fiction, that had to deal with dreams in the library but it all steams from the phycological standpoint. The books go from hallucinations to bottles feelings to everything you can think of. But It still did not make sense that a woman of 20 would have nightmares of her abusive days suddenly of she never had an abuse or bully to think of.
In all my school years it was friends and college were again... friends and work. No teachers to complain about, no parents to piss on about, Just affection. To be honest you can honestly call me a rarity in this millennial world. My parents together, both born U.S citizens and to boot both with decent jobs. What trauma could I have had. As is I never even seen my grandparents because they are all passing except my Nana. Who in all honesty, is a bitch! The only one that never likes it here so went back to Cuba.
For what my father says. “Abuela is just old. You cannot change an elderly’s point of view no matter how many views you take them to see. They always like their window.” His words hit the mark with her. After years of jumping from state to state with the family who spread out, she just could not face the fact what her country was where she had to be. So, she left and stayed. I for one never met her and never visited her. What was the trauma with death I always pondered? With no deaths in my family since I was born it was a beautiful thing to know that everyone was always okay.
School days always ended around 9:23 pm and I would be home by 10:15 pm for dinner and a nice novel before bed. All in a day’s work before being pulled into the devastating and serine wisp again. Beckoning me. What made it so devastating In the mornings was the fact that I liked his sense of security around me. The fact that every morning I cried was not only for the lives lost in those dreams but the fact that I took them, and I did not enjoy it. I enjoyed his voice waiving through my ear canal. His voice not actually there but in the air. Him not actually forcing me but leading me with the euphoria of my head in the clouds. It was as if he would lead me to death just to wake up alive every moment and feel like I accomplished to survive his touch. Knowing that every time he would even look at someone or something it would die, but not me.
Every night I would question him before waking, "Why not me...?"
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