The Sullivan Sisters

Sticks and Stones

Five nights out of the week, Paloma awoke to the indescribable shrill of screaming. The guttural cries of despair hadn't erupted from the bellows of her own belly, though; they came from her sister.

The first few times it happened, she found herself barreling into Quinn's room, Smith & Wesson in hand, looking for whoever was stupid enough to break into their home. But she'd never find anything more than Quinn and the still of the night.

It wasn't that Paloma was spared the other two remaining nights of the week, but those were the few times that Quinn was able to lull herself from her nightmares and bite her tongue before her sister could barge into the room with worry thick on her brow.

But now, it seemed that Quinn's bedroom wasn't the only area susceptible to the effects of her nightmares. Paloma sighed then tugged away at the oversized, yellow glove that swallowed her left hand whole. She did the same to the other until both were floating atop of the water-submerged, stained dishes.

Paloma hastened into the living room where the girl was tossing and turning. Crimson hair clung to her damp forehead and not a seam of the decorative pillow beneath her was spared of the sweat that seeped from her pores.

Paloma reached out, not stopping until she successfully shook Quinn awake; which was taking a lot more effort these days. She knew she met success when Quinn shot straight up, her chest rising and falling in a constant wave.

Quinn's heart pounded like an African drum which didn't make it any easier for her to catch her breath. Her fingers raked through her hair, laying down each frazzled strand of her mane. When she finally got a grip on her breathing, she found herself flinching under Paloma's touch, but only briefly.

Quinn granted herself permission to melt into Paloma's side, exhaling softly at the soothing strokes the woman ran up and down her arm. It was times like that that reminded Quinn that Paloma had inherited their mother's caring nature. Usually, she couldn't stop herself from squirming under the all-too-familiar touch but her nightmares proved to be far too jarring to handle on her own. So, for now, Paloma would do.

"Naps now, too, huh?" Paloma didn't raise her voice above a whisper. "They're getting really bad."

"I've had worse." Quinn hoped that that would put Paloma at ease but even glancing up at the woman, she could see her concern growing deeper.

"We gotta fix this, kiddo."

Paloma's words weren't born of annoyance or contempt and Quinn sensed that. But that didn't mean she had a solution. "I don't know how."

Paloma sat Quinn up until the teenager was facing her directly. Seeing the tears that decorated Quinn's rosy cheeks felt as though someone twisted the blade in her heart, demanding it to stop beating. In purely Paloma fashion, she hid her own upset with a gentle smile. The pads of her thumbs grazed the area just beneath Quinn's eyes. The back of her hand wiped the remainder of her cheeks until there wasn't a tear in sight.

"Well," began Paloma, "maybe we could start with what it is that's bothering you." She waited and waited but Quinn wouldn't extend her a piece of the puzzle, let alone the whole thing. "I thought we were getting better with this whole 'trusting each other' thing."

Quinn ignored that as if her life depended on it. "They're just dreams."

"Consistent nightmares."

"It happens." Quinn leaned forward to evade Paloma but the brunette mimicked her exactly.

"Stop trying to normalize it. They're not normal." Paloma dialed back her glare but only after she realized she was sporting one. To make up for the less-than-kind expression, she softened her voice. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm starting to think this is something I can't fix." Quinn craned her neck, expectantly meeting her sister's gaze and simultaneously pushing Paloma to elaborate. "I think, maybe..." Her hesitation couldn't have been more obvious if she had it tattooed on her forehead. "You could benefit from seeing a therapist."