Touch (Denazen #1)(87)

There’s so much I want to know. Why do I only dream about her when I need her most? Am I insane? I don’t ask. I’m afraid to. I want her to be real. Just a few months more, maybe a year, then I’ll grow up and cut this strange, imaginary cord. I can’t lose her smile, not yet, or her lips against my cheek—one of her butterfly kisses that’s gone before it’s begun.

Her silence has never bothered me before. Tonight, all I want is one word.

My name.

I touch her hair, her cheek. I know the tilt of her head and the tip of her lips. I know when she’s sad and when joy fills her to overflowing. I’ve tried painting her in art class, but I’ve never been able to capture her perfection, because when I wake, her face dissolves with the dream. If she’d just talk to me, I’d remember everything about her. I would.

As we lie there, night and day flash by. One minute the sun warms my skin, the next the stars color it silvery bright. Flowers open and close. Birds sing. An owl hoots. The girl turns and lays her head on my chest. I wrap a protective arm around her and pull her closer, yet it’s never close enough. She’s my one comfort in life, but being with her is like holding onto sand that keeps slipping through my fingers. Time is running out, and I can’t figure out why.

Suddenly, the darkness lowers and the dream grows cold, the woods sinister. She jerks upright. I follow. I ask her what’s wrong. Her face shows her terror. Her mouth opens in an attempt to speak. No words follow.

The next moment, she’s across the clearing. I call for her to come back. She doesn’t. She can’t. All I know is that she needs me. Now.

I slam back into consciousness, panting against the thudding of my heart. I peel off the scratchy covers and slip out of bed. The hotel room is dingy, but the night is laced with a full moon’s light. I stand at the window and let the hopelessness overcome me as the dream fades away.

Heaving a sigh, I grip the windowsill and roll my forehead along the cool glass.

It’s just a dream. Just a stupid, childish dream.

But how I wish it weren’t.





Again




I close my eyes, hoping to break free of this nightmare. Yet, when I open them, the hot breath of the southern summer is truly gone, replaced by a weakened sun and the cool breezes of the northwest. The car windows are open, and in the distance, the wooded foothills along the southern portion of the Cascade Mountains rise and fall like ripples in the earth. It’s June. It should be sweat-rolling-down-my-spine hot. Instead, there’s a damp chill outside. Not totally unpleasant, but not familiar. I slouch deeper into my seat and glare at Mom.

Her mouth pinches, her skin flushes, and she snubs out her cigarette in a tray overflowing with more than three days worth of ash and spent stubs. “Don’t, Dylan. Just keep it to yourself.”

She says I’m a petulant teenage boy. I am, but who wouldn’t be in this situation? I’m disillusioned. Frustrated. Disgusted by life. I’m seventeen, on the brink of my senior year, and once again, I’ve been forced to leave everything familiar to me in order to appease another of her emotional breakdowns. Mom thrives on drama. She always has, and I’ve always played along.

Not anymore. I’m sick of playing the good son.

“All I’m saying is, we didn’t have to leave.”

“We did.”

Same answer. Always the same.

“He left,” I remind her for the hundredth time.

She shakes her head, and the few dark curls that have managed to stay bound in her messy ponytail suddenly bounce free to lash wildly in the wind. “His family lives there. You know how people are. Hateful gossips.”

“So?”

Her jaw sets at a rigid angle. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not to them, and not to you.”

“So my life means nothing to y—”

“Shut it!” She blinks rapidly, still staring at the torn-up road. “I mean it. Not another word.”

The tears are back. I look away, disgust searing my insides. The cool wind whips through my hair, pounding at my eardrums, drowning out her staccato gasps for breath. “I get it. Nothing’s ever going to change.”

She ignores me. I’m fine with that—at least, that’s what I always tell myself—and soon she’s lighting up again. She bought the ten-pack carton at the first gas station we saw on our way out of town. For eight months she didn’t take a single drag. Not one. I’d been begging her to quit for years. Did she listen to me? No. But she listened to Jared, her latest ex-boyfriend. Anything for Jared. It’s the one thing the walking dick did right, but now look at her.

Why did I think she would change? We’re drifters, stumbling from small town to small town, staying a year or two until the man-pool dwindles, leaving the next. Mom changes men like some girls change their nail color. When she finally settles on one “special” guy, it’s only a matter of time before he leaves, by way of the back door, with an armful of our stuff he can hock at the local pawn shop and a pocket full of what little money he finds in Mom’s purse.

I’ve learned to lock my bedroom door.

The small evidence of our existence on this earth is behind us, rattling around in a rented trailer as it bounces in and out of deep ruts, shaking our rusty, old Plymouth Road Runner until I’m sure the rivets have come loose.