FORMERLY V D' YAVOL.
For as long as she can remember, Dream has been... dreaming. Very vividly. She saw how her childhood dog died two days before he actually did, so she had plenty of time to prepare herself-her words. She's been to plenty psycholo...
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The soft creaking of my bedroom door opening startled me awake and my head snapped up, only to reveal my mother walking in, slowly and unsure of my state.
I rested my head back down on the pillow and scooted back, minding the sleeping dog behind my back. Mama slid into my bed, facing me with her boney, hollow face. She smiled a sad, soft smile at me, and it would've broken my heart if I didn't hate her.
"When I was twenty," she whispered, "I met an older man. He was much older-twelve years. We did everything together, everything. I fell in love with him quickly, because he was everything that I wanted and needed from a man, and he was older which was a plus,"
"Anyway, I fell in love and he didn't. God, he ruined my life. He never answered his calls, and he never answered the door when I went over to his place. He slept with me many, many times. Every time, he'd tell me I was beautiful and exactly what he wanted. Every single time we did it,"
I inhaled a slow breath, "Kirill isn't him," I whispered, half mumbled. My mother swallowed hard, "You don't know that, Dreamy. What, he calls you pretty and tells you he likes your dresses? Buys you jewellery and touches you the way you like? That doesn't mean anything, Dreamy. Men are pigs, and they will always get what they want,"
My chest caved into one at her words, only because Kirill did all of that. He calls me pretty- his pretty girl. He tells me to show him my dresses, and he touches me perfectly because he knows. He knows how to touch twenty one year old naïve girls. He knows. He knows everything, and I know nothing.
Mama was right. Mama was always right.
A choked sob left my throat and my mother didn't hesitate to pull me into her arms, and she held to tight to her chest as I sighed out broken sentences.
"He does," I slurred, "he calls me p-pretty every day. He tells me...me he likes them- my dresses. God, he calls me all these names. He doesn't really like me, does he? I'm-I'm just easy, right?"
"Yes, baby. Yes,"
My heart had never hurted as much as it did now. I grabbed a fistful of my comforter and sobbed into it, my head throbbed from my cries, and it felt like the silver chain was choking me. I wanted it off, and I wanted his hands off my body from three two days ago. I wanted him out of my mind and out of my heart and out of me.
"Sh, sh," mama cooed, "It's okay, Dreamy. You'll go to church with us tomorrow, and you'll forget all about him, hm? Don't worry, baby. He can't hurt you anymore,"
I agreed with a delirious, throbbing nod.
I fell asleep in my mothers arms. And had many, many dreams about tattooed hands touching me, pearly blue eyes watching me, a sinister tongue dripping it's false prophecies onto my skin. I slept soundly until she left somewhere after midnight, and then my sleep was as light as a feather.
