"THE DREAM"
So hot.
It's burning.
I jolt awake in the middle of the night, my skin damp with sweat. My body feels heavy, weighted down, as though something is pressing me into the mattress. The room tilts, swirls. I push myself up, stumble, almost collapsing.
Fucking hell.
Somehow, half-dragging my own weight, I make it to the bathroom. My hands clutch the sink for balance. The mirror reflects a bitch, hair sticking out in wild tufts like I stuck my head in a live wire, purple shadows beneath hollow eyes, skin so pale it looks carved from bone.
I splash cold water on my face, the sting waking me enough to breathe again. My body trembles.I start filling the tub, twisting the faucet until water gushes, rising, filling. The sound calms me like white noise drowning out the chaos in my head.
From the drawer I drag out the little black leather diary.The cover is cracked, worn, but solid, like it's been waiting all these years for my hands. I sink into the tub as the cold water climbs over my skin, cooling the fire inside me. The diary rests on my knees.
The first two pages: blank. Empty silence. But then… not anymore.
MAY 25
Father says dreams always mean something, like messages wrapped in riddles. Sometimes they're good news. Sometimes warnings.
I love dreams. They're so much better than real life.
Last night, I dreamed that I was standing near a tall, silver waterfall that spilled down sheer emerald cliffs, disappearing into a mist filled gorge below. Ancient trees clung to the rock faces, their branches stretching out over the void, while soft light filtered through the haze, giving the whole scene a quiet stillness so relaxing that I felt I could stay there for an eternity.
There was someone there,a girl with blonde, curly hair, wearing a translucent white dress. I couldn't see her face, but she seemed so familiar. The air felt cool and damp, as if the place had been untouched for centuries and then I woke up.
Writing in a diary wasn't always my thing, but maybe it's good. Collecting thoughts, catching moments before they slip away.
Mary went down for breakfast. She's so tidy, so punctual—sometimes annoyingly so. But I like that about her.
Last night Father brought us two vases. A white one for Mary. A black one for me.They are beautiful with intricate carved designs like it's been brought from ancient Greek, Mine looks perfect against my furniture. I'm thinking of putting it on the windowsill.I love watching the city lights from my room. They look like stars: so close, so impossibly far.
I should go now. Clara must have cooked something delicious. She's more like a mother to us than our own sometimes. Sweet Clara. She bakes, she crochets, she teaches Mary her little tricks in the kitchen. Mary loves it. I don't—I'd rather paint. Or sculpt. Sculpting isn't easy, not like painting, but painting isn't easy either,Mary loves sketching alot and she is really good at it.I think I'll paint my window next. The city lights deserve to live on canvas.
I blink.
Light burns into my eyes. Sunlight.
I'm in bed.
For a heartbeat I don't remember how I got here—but then it rushes back. The tub. The diary. Falling asleep, then dragging myself here half-conscious.
My head whips to the nightstand. There it is. The diary. Waiting.
My chest tightens, not with fear this time but something else—something I haven't felt in a long, long time.
Excitement.
I'm finally going to know her. My mother and aunt's life,their thoughts and most possibly the truth. Things she couldn't tell me when she was alive. Things no one else knows.
The strangest part? I feel happy. Happy that she painted. Happy that she dreamed. Maybe I inherited something from her besides blue eyes and bitchiness. Art. That was hers. That is mine.
Still, the thought digs deep, isn't it odd, learning the truth about someone you love only after they're gone? After they've "suicided."
After they've been murdered.