Page 81 of Snatched By the Sandman

“While you were sleeping, I helped Linny and Ginny front and adjust to their new body,” Eclipse explains and nods to one side.

I glance around, sensing the presence of others around us, but beyond the thin fog before us, I have a vague feeling of my knees hitting sand and the gritty sensation of the particles. I can’t help but wonder how my child self feels about it all. Does she recognize me? Or is she simply grateful for someone else being with her?

“Loneliness was the worst feeling,” I say softly, meeting Eclipse’s eyes.

She nods in understanding.

I consider how my father homeschooled me. Much of our time was spent on the road. And how he never let me have a dog. One time, I tried to bring a stray cat home. He took her from me, went out into the fields behind our house, and he didn’t bring her back. I knew better than to ask what he did. But I always fantasized that she found a good home with a family who would give her cream, a scratching post, and a warm bed.

“You became very good at fantasies,” Eclipse remarks, her arm brushing against mine. “And playing.”

Yes…playing. The tingling in my fingers and the warm, fuzzy sensation at the edges with the hard but smooth feeling of the bones in my hands all confirm I’m still aware.

“Come with me, Zenya,” Eclipse nods deeper inside the vast blanket fort. “I’ll introduce you to Monroe and a few others. But let them play. Just for a little while…”

Chapter 29

“There is magic in that sand.”

HECATE

“I See Your Monsters” by Timeflies - Nightcore cover

Iknow the moment when Linny fronts. The shift in body language. The visible skip and sense of whimsy in her form. She flutters her hand in a wave to little Zenya.

From the shadows, I watch their interaction. Morpheus and Nyxion remain nearby, monitoring the woods for any interlopers, whether reavers or worse as they’d shared with me.

“Hi, can I play with you?” Linny wonders while kneeling beside the sandbox.

Little Zenya blinks, glances down at the bones, and then looks up again, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. Whether she knows or not is a mystery, but if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge it. I imagine she is far too starved for a friend to question where she came from.

“Only if you keep it a secret,” little Zenya whispers while cupping one side of her face. “Daddy doesn’t like anyone else knowing.”

Linny raises her hand to her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to cry.”

After sharing a giggle, both girls fiddle with the little bones, and I spend a few minutes watching them try to build a house with them—like they are no more than twigs. Neither glance at the corpse a few feet nearby, dissociating into their world of fantasy play.

Zenya learned quite well how to fantasize. And dream.

“I like all the pictures on your skin,” little Zenya says, pointing to a skull tattoo blooming with black roses.

Linny glances down and touches the skull. She shivers, and that’s when I notice the subtle shift with the slightly younger one, Ginny, moving her hand to the right side of her body. “I like the unicorn and the stars. Sometimes, I imagine riding one, and she takes me far away into the stars and away from all the scary things.”

“I know what that’s like,” little Zenya confirms, her somber eyes straying to the corpse.

Ginny and Linny go back and forth. Sometimes they dig with little Zenya, forming bucket-shaped towers and decorating them with pebbles, twigs, and daisies. And little bones. They play with Zenya’s raggedy Barbie dolls. Some are missing hair, but instead, Zenya taped purple thread along the plastic skulls—evidence of her favorite color from a young age.

“I pretend the purple strings are like those grand carpets they lay out for queens, except it’s my hair growing.” Zenya laughs, leans closer to Linny, and lifts a few locks of her hair. “And when I suck on it, it tastes grape-flavored.”

My heart aches for the little girl as she chews on those locks of her hair, a sensory-starved coping mechanism. Linny shares how she would have pink hair that tastes like cotton candy.

After a few more minutes of making a castle and decorating it with the bones, little Zenya presses her lips into a smile. “I like flowers a lot. Especially Zinnias because they’re like my name.”

Ahhh…there is my little weaver. She’s returned with how she squares her shoulders, her eyes turning pensive and glistening with tears. Zenya’s hand trembles as she reaches out to touch her fingertips to the back of her child self’s hand. “I love Zinnias, too. Especially because they bring butterflies.”

“And they’re so bright and friendly,” the little one says while staring at the young woman before her for a few seconds. “I like your hair.”

Zenya smiles softly because it’s the first time her child self has proclaimed the admiration—as if she senses how this young woman is the one who chose the purple, fulfilling her childhood dreams.

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