Dreams
When I opened my eyes, I couldnât see much.
It was dark, which was odd because it never happened after dark, but then again I never had the privilege of knowing first hand how everything was going to take place.
This time it looked like I was standing in the middle of nowhere. I had been in nowhere before but in the end, it was always somewhere â I turned around, took one more look but still couldnât see anything that might spark familiarity  â usually, it was small details like a tree, a sign or even a person,âŚmaking nowhere became somewhere.
At cue, there were rustling sounds under my feet, ruffles in my ears and an open field across the street. I said it was a street but it was more of a narrow, rocky trail. As intriguing as watching everything started to make sense, I had no interest in crossing â I must wait here. I didnât know for how long but I must. I waited until the winds picked up until there was the moon â a crescent one â in the sky. I waited until I shifted from one leg to another for how many times I lost count. Until I wanted to take a seatâŚ
On my right, a bench suddenly presented itself. Tilted my head, I tried to recall if it was there the last time I turned around but I could not remember. I took the seat anyway.
I sat there for a more while, or at least I believed time did pass around here â It was always hard to grasp the blurry concept of time whenever I found myself in this position, nor feel, nor anything. Especially when I was waiting.
A lamp post made everything a bit brighter, a bus sign sprouted from my right, on which read the next stop was three minutes from now â It seemed I was waiting for a bus â It had always been a moving vessel. Last time it was a boat, the other time before it was a train, some other times were either a plane or even a roller coaster. But never a bus. First time for everything I guessed.
The bus in question slowly cut through the night, approaching the station at snail pace. From afar I spied it was a piece of junk; crusty, rusty, crackling on its track. Gusts of wind picked up fast. They combed through the wild grass, making them caressed each other, hissing sounds filled the void and I shivered under the cold. I wondered if it was warmer on the bus, maybe I could roll up the windows, that unless there were windows on that thing.
Would I need a ticket for it?
The bus ate its break in front of my eyes and its door sprung opened.
Guessed not.
The steps creaked under my weights, its whole head shifted to one side as where I stood. The driver seat was empty â there was no driver, no valet â the door automatically closed behind me and the wheels started moving. I should have been hesitant, should have a chill running down my back but my legs carried my way down the back like nothing happened. Someone was waiting for me and that was all I cared,
I took a seat on the far end, not quite the last row but right above the streaky tires. The seat by the windows as I expected was already taken.
âIâm sorry for this has no glass.â The person said, implying the lack of shield on the windows.
It was a man with a familiar face, one I had seen too many times to the point I could have easily pick him out in a queue, literary in my sleep. Though his hair was a bit longer since the last time I saw him, cheek hollower, eyes haunting, sunken, deepen â hovering above the left eye there was faded line I yearned to touch, which stood out even more as his face sharpen and skin darker. He looked like he terribly in need of a goodnight sleep.
âSince when do you have beard?â I asked wryly.
He consciously touched his chin, where said beard lay and twitched.
âIâve been busy. Donât you like it? I think itâs cool.â
I shrugged. âItâs different.â
Some extra body hair made him almost handsomely rugged, far different than the lanky boy I had in mind.
I should have known better; every time I saw him he was a bit foreign than the last. One day he showed up taller than me, one day way tanner, sometime in the past his face was full of pimples and the next with wicked jawlines. Though he never quite grew out of the length of his limbs, even they had muscle now; strong and lean muscles.
âHow are you lately?â
âFine, I guessed,â I said, blinking a tad too fast. âI think I was finishing up the last few pages of my latest draft when you called.â
I missed him.
When I was nine, I had a crush on this boy in my class. I didnât remember how he looked like nor how I managed to develop feelings for him â the fact I could have a genuine emotional connection with anyone aside from my family was an amazing feast by itself â there was a lot of things I didnât remember about him but there was one thing I did; his name.
âDeondre.â Itâd been years since that name escaped my lips. It left a strange taste on my tongue, yet rolling out easier than I thought. That name held no significance to me but I guessed it had always been there, in the back of my mind, locked away, waiting to be drawn back out.
I couldnât recall much what eventually came down between us â we were nine, so I reckoned not much â just some small interactions here and there or fragments of flashbacks. He and the memories about him faded as years passed, until one day I had no recall of him down the road. It would have been fine just like that, as a âgood old timeâ, as a reminder I was not always as âcoldâ and âunbotheredâ as I was dubbed.
Until one day, he stood in front of me again.
The âreunionâ wasnât what I expect it to be â a cup of coffee or tea would be nice, catching up with each other would be fine but definitely not on a moving train to nowhere.
I first dreamt of him when I was fifteen.
I couldnât recall what went down, it was seven years ago after all. But I knew who he was the moment I lay my eyes on him. Maybe there wasnât anything with that dream. Maybe I did spend the entire time looking at his face and wondered how â he looked different â but it was brief and sweet. The boy i had a crush on was lanky and awkward at best, the young man sat next to me radiated confidence. The boy I had a crush on would trip over his own feet while running up to me with a bar of chocolate in his hand on Valentine's day. The young man sat next to me flashed me a Colgate smile brighter than my future at the time. The boy had crocked teeth, he had perfect rows.
He took my hand in his and we sat like that not saying a single word.
I woke up with damp cheeks but brushed it off as a normal dream. I also brushed off the next, one half a year later, when Deondre took us on a boat ride. Also the third time, six months after that on a cruise ship, and the fourthâŚfifthâŚsixthâŚ
Every time I opened my eyes it was just another dream, ones that would become blurry and dismissive when I got back to reality.
Deondre averted his eyes, fondling on the brim of his shirt. He was wearing a white tee, one side of his collar fold inward. My hands itch to straighten it up but instead of reaching out to him, I touched mine.
âSorry to disturb you. Though I feel like it was necessary.â His voice was low, too low. âYou were drinking, werenât you?â
Alcohol and me, we were like ex-lovers. We pushed and we pulled, we were toxic to each other but the temptation was so attractive.
I didnât get surprised. Deondre knew everything.
What I wasnât expecting was the fact he mentioned it straight out - for the past ten years we never talked about anything that was outside what happened at the moment as reality was a taboo subject for both of us, it didnât have a place in the unconsciousness. I thought we never would. We met, we made small talks about the flowers we saw on the way, how the clouds here were always the same shapes, or maybe we should be more creative and decorated next time with cotton candy and chocolate fountains. Sometimes we went out for a few walks before he sent me on my way.
The sunken eyes of his had dark bags now, I hadnât noticed.
He took my hand in his, brought it to his lips. His breaths were so shaky I could feel it on my skin.
âAre you okay?â
He whispered against my skin. His voice was so grave, it broke my heart a little.
âIâm doing fine.â
âYou know you donât have to lie to me right?â He said. âYou canât actuallyâ
I didnât look at him, didnât dare to. Instead, I was focus on something that wasnât here.
âWhen was the last time you cried?â
âA while,â I said. âI missed it. Crying. It sucks and it hurts but at least it makes everything a bit bearable.â
âThen cry.â
âIt wonât come out.â Shaking my head, I said bitterly. âBesides, for what? There is no reason for me to cry.â
âDid you talk about it-â
âDonât.â I cut him mid-sentence. âAnything but that question.â
The bus stopped abruptly causing me to lunge forward, hitting my head into the seat in front. When I turned around to check on him, he wasnât sitting any more but stood quietly in the walkway.
âPromise me that you will be fine. And be careful â â
âOf what?â
Biting his lip, the look on his face was grim. He took my hands again, this time it felt a bit cold. Or was it always cold?
âOf yourself. After all, isnât it why I am here?â He said. âInside your head. Confronting you, reminding you?â
Before I could say anything, he took my face by two hands, holding my nape and leaned forwards. His lips met mine in a rush and desperate attempt. His lips moved softly as warmth spread through my body.
âI want to see you again.â
And every time, wanted or not. I melted into the kiss.
.
.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw my messy desk with scattering drafts and books. The computer was still on, my fingers lingering on the keyboard for when I felt asleep I must be typing, which I would have to look over the whole page once again to got the feel back and knew where the hell I was in the story. But before that I needed to get rid of the feeling of loss and disorientation from blurry memories and incoherent patches of what I was dreaming, clouding my head.
There was no bus, no empty field or sign of another person in my room. Everything was a dream, like it always had been. Nothing seemed real except for the fathom touch on my lips.
I reached out for the cup of water I always kept on the stand nearby and downed it in one go when a small bottle of white pills caught my eyes, ignoring the golden whiskey right next to it.
In the back of my mind â a very, very, very far back section â I had an idea why he said what he said by the look of the full pill bottle. I couldnât recall the last time I took one of those as I was prescripted. Right now I bet if I trade my way back to my schedules and emails, I would have a full inbox of notification plus reminders for unattended sessions.
In my defense, I was busy. The story couldnât write itself and Mia â my editor â would have my ass if she didnât get a full draft of it by the end of this week.
Once again, all the red flags were ignored. And I couldnât remember what I was dreaming about.
