Page 1 of Free to Dream
Prologue
Cassidy
Iam haunted by my dreams, particularly when the glory days of summer start to feed into the longer days of fall. As the sun comes up later each day, casting its shadows deeper across my bed, I feel imprisoned by nightmares that torture my psyche.
In my sleep, I have no sense of reality versus imagination. All of this occurs in the narrow void of time between sleep and awake, where all I see are my impressions of Heaven and Hell.
I often wonder if Morpheus hovers in the shadows of my bedroom in his long, black and white coat, fighting with his brothers Phobetor, Phantasos, and Ikelos over who gets to play pinball with my dreams on any given night.
Seeking to rid myself of my nightly trauma, I’ve read every book about control dreams. I’ve talked to doctors. I resolutely stay away from known triggers. I’ve documented my daily habits to such a degree and kept a regimented order over my life, I could tell you what I ate last year on this same exact day for breakfast.
I’d like to think I could exert some control over my damn dreams rather than letting them control me.
Control is apparently an illusion.
I was forced to give up control long ago.
Control over my life.
Control of my emotions.
Never again.
* * *
In the hoursjust before dawn, my head tosses restlessly on the pillow and my lips part, feeling dry.
I look at the door with no handles, just a keyhole.
No one can get in and I can’t get out.
There’s nowhere for me to go.
So I sit, day after day, in this tiny room.
After he had to kick in the door the last time, he removed the bathroom door as well, making the smell of the air bad all the time.
I pull my knees up to my chest in the corner.
The air is too hot. My skin sticks together where it touches, even between my fingers and toes. I wiggle them just to get the sweaty feeling away and let out a small breath.
I don’t dare touch the air. I remember what happened the last time I did and my stomach churns.
He made me pay for it all right.
I look longingly at the faucet, missing the water. He said it was my fault. If I had just done a better job, we would have had enough money to pay for it.
I won’t complain, I don’t dare. He made it hurt so much worse the last time I did.
I rub my hand over my legs, noticing that they’re more tender than usual. I pull up my shirt and find fresh bruises from last night. My little finger runs over the indentations, picking out the individual teeth marks.
Maybe he won’t come back, the almost dead part of me whispers in my head. Maybe he’s finally done.
Maybe you can go home.
Time passes. The heat is so unbearable, I’m panting. Like…what’s that phrase? A bitch in heat? That’s what I am now, right? What he made me?
My stomach rumbles. Food is a privilege, one I have to earn. It could be hours or days before I get anything that might resemble food. Maybe it won’t have worms crawling in it if I’m really good. Though, if not, I have gotten used to them.
