A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Prologue: Oblivious to the Hour

Snow falls in light whispers outside; its crystallized flakes more fragile than the fleece-cocooned baby inside, lying warm and asleep in her cradle. Her mother sits by, gently rocking and lulling her deeper into soothing slumber. The woman sets aside her cup of tea and reads from the open book in her lap.

The world has gone awry; "Big Brother is watching you," George Orwell proclaims.

A worried man walks into the room, "You still haven't slept!" He hisses in horror. "No, I like watching her sleep," she glances up from her book and beckons him over in a hush, "Come, look."

He draws closer to the cradle and peers at the porcelain doll. He tucks in the blankets around her and softly caresses her cheek. "She's so little," he observes and the lines on his face ease away.

"Don't stay up too late," he cautions his wife before leaving the room and she nods.

Time slips. The skies grow dim. Snow continues to fall and the bleak white world shimmers like a ghost in the darkening night. The woman reads on. The plot is unbearable, it goes everywhere and nowhere and without meaning to, she becomes oblivious to the hour. A sweat breaks on her forehead as the protagonist confronts one unfortunate event after another. The high points are few, the low points — many. The book grasps her attention for more minutes than she should have allowed. But truth be told, she was never afraid of time.

When she turns the last page, the sky is quiet. Snow has latched onto every surface like wild brambles that catch onto laced dress-hems. It is everywhere and nowhere. Big Brother is watching but the pristine whiteness calls to her like a siren and oh how overwhelming is the silence. No one would interrupt her if she decided to take a walk. Maybe even make a snowman.

Perhaps when her baby girl grew up, they'd make one together.

***

The woman tells her about the nightmare and she listens to her carefully, with her brown eyes wide.

"I am glad you're all right, Mamma," she cries into her mother's lap.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she reassures her daughter, "I'll always be here, you know that, right?" The girl nods frantically and the woman wonders if she really understands what she means. She'll have to, she has no choice.

She runs her hand through the girl's brown curls and combs them over and over, till she falls asleep. And then, Mamma falls asleep too.

***

"You can't leave us like this," he concludes, desperate in his pleading. He's afraid, he doesn't want her to make this decision. But she is ruthless, she stubbornly follows her will.

"I'm always going to be here," she reminds him softly, "Will you give her the locket?"

"Of course, I'll do anything you want," he begs her. She doesn't relent.

She stays in time, while the rest of them move on.

***

"Dad, do you have bad dreams like Mamma?" The girl asks her father. He shakes his head. How could he tell her? She was barely three years old. The child wouldn't remember anyway.

She squeals in delight as she slides down. He pushes her back and forth on the swings. The chains creak with age. Creak. Creak. Creak. They creak with knowledge. Knowledge of what had happened and what would happen. They continue to creak as the little girl's happiness echoes through the empty playground.

She likes the swings, her father observes with a smile. The swings move like a pendulum, the highs and lows, they excite her.

***

"What would you like to eat, love?" He asks his daughter as he ties an apron around his neck. He doesn't want the flour to dust his freshly laundered clothes.

"Pancakes!" She decides loudly. He scoops her up and drops her into a chair behind the kitchen counter and she bursts into a fit of laughter.

He takes out pans and pots to make breakfast for his daughter. The cabinets creak open, quietly — quieter than the noise swings make. He takes out sugar and flour, and then shuts the cabinets close. He takes the eggs out next. With precision, he measures out portions into a wide bowl and begins to whip them into perfect batter.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yesss!" She grins, flashing a small row of creamy white teeth at him, "But I had a strange dream."

"Did you, now? You know, dreams are signs," he says wagging a finger at her, "They tell us something about ourselves."

"Yes, they are!" She yells and claps her soft hands once, as if with finality. Her father had taught her well.

He smiles at her lovingly and gently pecks her nose with the whisk. A speck of pancake mush appears on her tiny nose. She's so little, he thinks.