I’ve been blind for a year now. Long story short, my ex-boyfriend thought it would be funny to burn me with acid. He was pissed I’d broken up with him after he tried to slap me. The last thing I ever saw was him running up to me holding a multicolored can of some sort of cleaning chemical, a wild look in his eyes and a twisted grin on his face. Still turns my stomach to think about it. After about a week in the hospital, I was sent home, my eyes permanently clouded and my face scarred, completely blind. The trial was the worst part, his lawyer throwing all sorts of sexist bullshit around, but my ex was convicted and sent to jail for assault. I’m still dealing with the consequences, mainly dreams that I’m dying in various horrible ways.
It's been a year, and some reason, now I dreaming of people dying.
“Cass!” Dad yelled from downstairs. “Time for school!”
I rolled out of bed. I felt around, eventually finding the stack of clothes my dad and I had set out the night before. I tugged on the t-shirt and jeans, pulling on a soft cardigan over top. I dug my fingers into the fluffy yarn of the sweater and breathed in the smell, flowery organic detergent smell waking me up the rest of the way. I felt little flecks of paint on the shirt, from back when I used to paint. I sighed. I haven’t painted anything for almost a year. I’ve tried, for sure. I’ve read about lots of blind people who’ve overcome their lack of sight to make beautiful art, but that wasn’t me. I used to win awards for my paintings, full of swirling colors and striking faces that impressed judges all over the state. But know, I just couldn’t get into it anymore. And besides, it wasn’t really the same when I couldn’t see it.
I sighed, pulling on some socks and walking downstairs. By now, I knew the layout of the house perfectly: the stairs went into the living room and kitchen, where Dad and Pops always made breakfast at 7 am sharp, every morning.
“Good morning, sunshine,” my pops sang, putting something in a pan that sizzled loudly. I quickly smelled it was bacon.
“Morning,” I said, rubbing my face, feeling the bumps and ridges of the burn scars beneath my fingers. The scars spiderwebbed over my eyes and across my cheeks, and I’m told they look kind of badass. They had healed remarkably well, so I’m told. Could have been much worse, and all that. Although, I think my milky white eyes off put some people, so I usually wear dark glasses to school, but at home, neither Dad nor Pops cared much.
“Want some bacon and toast?” Dad said, the toaster popping up.
“Sure,” I said, pulling out one of the chairs at the breakfast bar and sitting down. The cacophony of breakfast sounds and smells permeated the air: smoke from the toaster, smell of cooking bacon crackling in the pan, citrus of the orange juice.
“There you go, kiddo,” Pops said, the plate clicking against the counter, followed by the metallic clink of a fork.
“Thanks Pops,” I said, touching the plate softy to determine where everything was. I picked up a strip of bacon and stuck it in my mouth, chewing softly.
“Therapy tonight, right dear?” Dad said, turning on the sink.
“What? No, it’s Wednesday, I don’t have therapy until Monday.”
Pops and Dad were silent for a moment.
“Please don’t do that thing where you have entire conversations with your facial expressions, it’s annoying,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Sorry, love,” Pops said. I heard the stool next to me scratched against the wood floor and creak as Pops sat down next to me. “We scheduled an extra one this week, I must have forgotten to tell you.”
I could feel Dad’s fiery stare from here. And hell, I’m blind.
“We just thought that since today is… well, the anniversary of the attack and all, maybe you’d want to talk to Dr. Helios.”
My stomach twisted, my bacon and toast swimming. I swallowed, hard. I ran my fingers over my soft cardigan again, the soft stimulation helping to ground me.
“Well, that should be my decision, shouldn’t it?”
“Of course, honey, but—”
“Look, I’ll go if it’ll make you guys feel better,” I said, my hands balling into fists under the table. I felt slippery blood on my palms as my nails cut into my skin. “I don’t really care.”
They were silent for a moment. “Okay, sweetheart,” Dad said.
The ride to school was silent. The rumble of the car sometimes put me to sleep on the ride to my private school, but not today. After the attack, my dads decided it might be better if I went to a new school, got away from what happened. I didn’t mind, and frankly the school had a pretty good program to help out people with disabilities, so it worked out. Besides, better than homeschooling.
“Morning, Cass,” said Rhea, my aide and best friend. I’d actually met her at a support group for abuse victims. Most of the people there were older and abused by their spouses, but Rhea and I were both teenage abuse victims. Her ex-boyfriend had abused her for months, beating the shit out of her at least once a week. After he beat her up so bad she went to the hospital, she got a restraining order and she and her family moved away. She’s super into knitting, and at support group asked me to feel which yarn felt better as she made scarves for everyone in the group. She even taught me how to knit, the repetitive motive easy for me to figure out even without being able to see what was happening. We’ve been friends ever since.
I smiled, sliding my dark glasses onto my face and getting out my support cane. “Hey, Rhea, how’s the weather?”
“Dark and cloudy, as per usual.”
“Knew it.”
We walked into school, Rhea holding my hand and guiding me through the doors. I was immediately hit with the smell of sweaty teenagers and Axe body spray.
“Let me guess,” I whispered to Rhea as we walked through the cloud. “Collin and the fuckboy gaggle.”
“Ding ding ding!” Rhea said, laughing. “Give the lady a prize!”
We continued on, my ears full of the chattering of various students. Eventually I smelled the soft hints of floral perfume.
“I’ll take cute literary girls for 200,” I said, grinning.
“You’re getting too good at this,” Rhea said, squeezing my hand.
“Well, after a year, I guess I’d get pretty good,” I said, squeezing her hand back.
“Wait, seriously? A year already?”
“Yep, to the day,” I said, my voice cracking slightly.
“You okay? I know my one-year anniversary was rough,” Rhea said, her voice concerned.
“I’m not, but I’ll get through it. It’s just weird, Dad and Pops scheduled an extra therapy appointment today without telling me.”
“That’s weird, but I guess they’re just trying to help.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You know I’m here for you if you ever need it,” Rhea said, her arm reaching around my shoulder and hugging me.
“I know, and I really appreciate it,” I gave her a weak smile. “but today, I just want to go home and sleep.”
“I totally get it.”
The day went by excruciatingly slowly. I recorded the lectures and Rhea took notes, and usually we meet up before exams to go over everything. It was nice, and we both got better grades. I usually just sat with a piece of paper and a pencil, drawing random shapes on the paper.
“That’s really cool, Cass,” Rhea whispered to me while our professor droned on about the black death.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it looks like faces,” Rhea said, chair creaking as she leaned closer.
I smiled, running my fingers over the paper. “Thanks.”
The bell rang and dismissed us, and I walked out to the parking lot with Rhea, my support cane keeping from hip checking other cars. I climbed into the passenger seat of Rhea’s car, running my hands over the soft upholstery. I heard the driver door slam and Rhea stuck her key into the ignition.
Rhea expertly navigated out of the parking lot, screaming and flipping off other drivers.
“Honestly one of the greatest joys in life is flipping people off,” Rhea said, messing with the radio.
“Right? Nothing better.”
We drove home, singing our favorite songs together whenever they came over the speakers, the vibrations from the loud speakers making the whole little car shake. Rhea eventually pulled up outside my house, and before I got out, she took my hand.
“Look, if you have a rough night or something, just call me and I’ll come over, okay?”
I smiled. “You know I will Rhea, thank you.”
“Good, see you tomorrow.”
I got and Rhea backed out of the driveway, her car’s engine clicking. I snapped my support cane open, navigating to the front door and going inside. My dads were at work, so I went up the stairs and into my room, exhausted. I didn’t have therapy until four, so I figured I’d take a nap. I checked the time, my phone ‘s electronic voice tinny and unnatural.
“It’s 2:45.” My phone said.
“Cool, thanks phone.”
I tugged back my covers, sliding my legs into the soft sheets. I laid down, feeling all my muscles relax. My bed was one of things I knew had never change: soft white flannel sheets, pale blue comforter, soft micro plush blanket with leaves on it. I could see it almost perfectly.
I fell asleep quickly, exhausted. At first, it was normal sleep and all, sweet oblivion and everything. Then, I began dreaming.
Now, I don’t usually dream. When I do, they’re not very vivid, and I forget them pretty quickly. This was totally different.
I was walking home, the sun was almost below the horizon and bathed the streets in a soft glow. The ornate streetlamps clicked on, illuminating the kitschy storefronts I passed. I recognized the street, it was nearby my therapist’s office. My heels clicked against the pavement, the only sound besides the occasional car passing by. I felt nervous, cortisol flushing through my bloodstream and raising my heart rate. I was wearing a short red dress, patterned with pretty golden embroidery. I liked it, it was a nice color, the sort of thing I used to wear.
I was walking past and alley when I heard something. I looked down into it, there were a few dumpsters and empty boxes, your usual filthy alley way. I heard a soft mewl, almost like a cat. Curious, I walked down towards the sounds, clicking my tongue.
“Hey, kitty, you down here?” I said, my voice totally different. My voice in the dream was softer and sultrier, my actual voice is a bit sharper.
A little kitty emerged from a box. She was a little black cat with big yellow eyes, pupils large and wide. I knelt down, offering a hand to the little cat. The cat walked up to me, nuzzling my hand. I petted her for a second, before she suddenly got spooked, dashing back into the box she’d come out from. I smiled, standing up again. I was thinking about maybe going to the store and getting some cat food for her, maybe take her home and have a new friend. I was about to turn around when someone came out of the darkness, wearing a clown mask. It was disgusting, with wild eyes and a big red mouth in a twisted grin, the sort of thing that always grossed me out in Halloween stores. He hit me over the head with a pipe, knocking me to the dirty ground. I tried to scramble away, but he just kept hitting me, with the pipe, griping me by the collar of my coat.
He kept hitting me and hitting me, and hitting me, and hitting me, over and over and over and over oh god his face is covered in blood oh god oh god that’s my blood I’m screaming won’t someone help me and over and over and over and over is that a piece of my skull—
I gasped awake, the world dark again. I burst into tears, terrified and overwhelmed by the feeling of being murdered. I’d never had a dream that vivid, never in my life. It didn’t even feel like a dream, like I was really there. That was the worst thing.
“Cass— oh, no,” Pops said, my door creaking open. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
I reached out my arms, unable to get any words out. Pops is a pretty big guy who always reminded me of a lumberjack, complete with the beard and dozens of flannel shirts. He wrapped his arms around me, rubbing my back, and I burrowed my face into his soft shirt. My body shook as I sobbed, terrified still.
“What’s going on, sweetie?” Pops asked.
“I-I-I had a b-bad dream,” I stammered between sobs. There was so so much blood. I was screaming so loud and no one came to help. How, how could this ever happen?
“Hey, sweetie, it’s okay he can’t hurt you anymore you know that—”
“It wasn’t him, Pops.”
“What happened, honey?”
“I was—I was someone else, s-someone getting… getting m-murdered.”
Pops was quiet for a second. “Okay… you still up for therapy tonight?”
I nodded, face still buried into his shirt. He smelled like wood shavings and pine.
“Okay, maybe Dr. H can help you out.”
I cleaned myself up and we drove to Dr. Helios’s office. My throat clenched, knowing we’d be driving down the road I had died on in my dream. Or, someone had died on.
No, Cass, it was a dream. Just a dream, a really weirdly specific dream. Right? I mean, what’s the alternative? I entered the mind of a girl as she was being murdered? How is that even possible?
I sighed, leaning my head against the window of the car, vibrations running through my skull. I felt Pops pull into the parking lot of the therapy office, and I got out of the car, carful not to hit the car next to us with the door. We walked in, sitting in the waiting room. Pops reached over and squeezed my hand, and I squeezed it back.
The door to Dr. Helios’s office creaked open, and I heard his previous patient walk past me. “Hello, Cassandra, why don’t you come in?” The familiar voice of Dr. Helios said.
“I’ll see you after, Cass,” Pops said, and I smiled at him. I grabbed my support cane and walked in Dr. Helios’s office, using my cane to find the chair I always sat in: a big, puffy leather armchair. I sat down, collapsing my cane.
Dr. Helios had been my therapist for the past six months. I started out in group therapy, recommended to me by my doctors, and that’s where I met Rhea. But, eventually, my dads figured it would be good for me to try out solo therapy. To be honest, it wasn’t my favorite, but I figured I’d give it a solid shot before totally swiping it aside. Besides, if my dads think I’m doing better, then that’s all I could really ask for.
“So, Cassandra,” Dr. Helios said, his notepad shuffling and pen clicking. “I hear it’s the anniversary of the attack today, is that right?”
“Yes,” I said, wringing my hands. The room always smelled like sandalwood, and today it was particularly suffocating.
“And how has that been for you?”
I had a quick flash back to having my skull beaten into a pulp by a stranger. “Not great.”
“How so?”
“I had… I had a dream.”
“What sort of dream? About the attack?”
“No… I was someone else, and I was being murdered. Beaten to death with a pipe, actually.”
I heard Helios writing on his pad. “Interesting. You’ve never mentioned dreams before.”
“I don’t dream often, I don’t think, and I don’t really remember them. This one was different. It was more… it was vivid. Like weirdly vivid,” I said, sighing.
“How so? Visually so?”
“Well yeah, and… it sounds crazy, but it felt like it had actually happened. Like it really happened.”
Helios wrote on his pad again, his pen scratching the paper. “Why do you think it was so vivid?”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Absolutely not, Cassandra.” Helios sounded indignant.
“But what if this is something that actually happened to someone?” I said, clenching my hand again, nails digging into my palms. “Can I help her? What if this girl is somewhere being murdered right now?”
“Cassandra, you see—”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“We’ve talked about this, Cass.” Helios said, annoyed slightly.
“Sorry,” I grumbled.
“Now, perhaps this is a manifestation of some anxieties,” Helios said, clicking his pen. “This is a big anniversary. Perhaps your brain is imagining some… alternative things that could have happened, and that frightens you.”
I sunk deeper into the chair. “Maybe, yeah.”
The rest of therapy session was boring, and frankly, I don’t feel like writing about it.
When I left Helios’s office, I checked my phone and stuck my headphone in to check my notifications. There was a text from Pops that said he had some grocery shopping to do, to he was parked down the street at the grocery store. He sent me his location too, so I could get there easily using my phone and find him. I sighed and went down the elevator to the street. I walked along the sidewalk, one earbud in, listening to the directions.
Suddenly, I heard a mewling, one eerily familiar. It sent a shiver down my spine, the hairs on the back on my neck standing up on end. Against my better judgement, I swung my cane down the alley, walking towards the mewling. Goosebumps rose on my skin the further I went down the alley, smells of rotting food worming its way up my nose. Then, I smelled a metallic smell, something I recognized from my numerous nosebleeds.
Blood.
My stomach dropped. I took a few steps forward, my shoes slipping in a pool of fluid. My cane ran into something soft. A person. There was a person in front of me.
I felt to the ground, feeling around for her neck, her body slippery with blood. I eventually found it and desperately tried to feel for a pulse. Nothing. A devastating nothingness.
I ripped my hand away, screaming.
Submitted March 14, 2019 at 05:36AM by sortof_haunted https://ift.tt/2T7giGM
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