The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

Liran's medicine

Liran clenched his fists, fighting the nausea that threatened to make a fool of him. There was no way he was going to get in sick in front of that girl. No way in hell.

He stared into the fire, and waited for the nausea to pass.

At some point, he realised the girl was praying. She wasn't saying anything, but her lips were moving. He wondered who she was talking to—what God she prayed to. Was she Muslim, Christian? She looked like a Jew.

He scowled—angry at her. He didn't even know why, but he hated her. She was so obnoxious—he could barely stand to look at her face.

Then he suddenly felt Grandmother's hand on his knee. She motioned for him to close his eyes, and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Right, thinking about the horrible things he'd done. How he wanted to behave moving forward.

What a joke, he thought. What about all the shit that had happened to him? He'd never really done anything that he truly regretted. Life had dealt him a bad hand, and he'd coped the best he could. If he could go back to the past, he'd kill his father a second time. The man deserved to die after what he'd done.

He'd robbed Hannah of a parent. He'd made them all orphans. He'd robbed all of them of a loving home.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Why do I have to change? It's the world that needs to change. It's the world that is so fucked up!

And yet, a part of him knew that there was also something wrong with him. Why am I so angry all the time?

He'd spent large portions of his life wanting to smash things. Wanting to smash people. That wasn't normal. That wasn't how he wanted to be. Would he ever be able to have a normal life? Get married, have children? Be happy? He doubted it very much. He feared he would be a horrible husband and father. Probably end up just like his own father.

The idea sent a shiver down his spine.

He opened his eyes after what must have been twenty minutes and realised something had changed. His perceptions were stronger. His stomach, which had felt dark and heavy, was now a warm ball of light, fuzzy energy. The room, although dimly lit, was full of light. It sparkled in a way he'd never noticed before. It was simply beautiful.

He stretched his limbs and yawned, feeling like he could breathe in enough air to just simply float away.

The smells—of dried herbs, of the fire, and a lifetime of Grandmother's spicy, earthy odors—were incredible. How had he not noticed how wonderful it smelled in here before?

He watched The Grandmother stoke the fire, and was captivated by the flame. It seemed to dance just for him. Like the world's most beautiful dancer. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen.

And Grandmother's arm as she reached out—dark brown and full of wrinkles, the skin stretched thin over a layer of muscles and bone. It was the arm of wisdom, the hand of love. He suddenly loved Grandmother more than anyone he'd ever loved before in his life.

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "Grandmother?" he said softly, luxuriating in the feel of her thin shirt and the warmth of her skin.

She looked at him and put her finger to her lips.

Liran ignored that, and said, "I love you, Grandmother. More than I could ever express."

She smiled, and Liran suddenly felt like he could fall into her face—into her body, like he could disappear into her love. She was the embodiment of love. Of everything good in the world.

"I love you," he repeated.

She nodded, smiling warmly, and put her finger to her mouth, and motioned to Imorah, who was now staring around her, disrupted from prayers by his declarations.