memories stolen from the flame

chapter 1: things get lit in chemistry class

People say dreams can lead to self-discovery, a message sent by the gods to give you purpose in life. Well I want to know what is going threw that dream gods twisted head because I have had the same dream for 6 months and it makes absolutely no sense.  To give the reader of this story more description of the said repeating dream of Nate Pendrake, who’s head y’all are inside. The scene is set; nothing but bright golden light all around me as I sit in what I can make a well-educated guess is a grassy field. The reason I say it’s a guess is because in the dream I can look around me I can only feel the tickling blades of nature’s carpet and smell the distant smell of nature’s beauty; and by beauty, I mean the smell of fresh flowers, cut grass, and an animal with bowel problems that haven’t gotten better for years.

    In my lap in the dream I can feel the weight of another person, their head resting on my shoulder as they cry. Their wet hands griping the back of my shirt as if it was their only life lines. From the stickiness of the damp hands, they are not covered in water. I have my own hands wrapped around the person back I can feel their long silky hair between my fingers. The rising and falling of the sobbing person in my lap. And just as I try to get a better grasp of what is happening I am yanked into blackness as the person screams my name in agony and I am back in my bed. Placed there by that same cruel god that doesn’t give me any other clue to what the hell I’m dreaming about.

    The apartment is usually empty at all times because my brother, Zed, refuses to go to his job at a normal time of day, so I am left to my own thoughts and company until my friend Tommy gives me a ride. Being alone with your own thoughts isn’t that bad most days I get ready for school by playing a Disney movie while I get ready or I sit and try to come up with a wisp of memory to what my life had been before Zed and I moved to the small Californian town of Silver Ash. Zed told me when we first moved here that we got into a car accident and because if that I had some brain trauma. I can remember anything of my childhood. I can’t remember my own mothers face; who Zed never talks about. I assume she died in that same accident.

    By the time Tom does get here in the mornings I normally have to just put my apple core in the trash, hooray a well-balanced breakfast, and put my hair up in what most people refer to as a man bun, but hey I don’t like having to look through a curtain of red all day, but I can’t bring myself to cut my hair.

Tommy drives his mom’s old minivan, its white, the paint is scratched and faded from the sun constantly beating down on it, and it always smells like a taco bell bathroom despite having a lest twenty air fresheners hanging from the mirror. As for Tommy, his is slightly overweight and shorter then what most women like, but hey if you can’t fix it in 2 minutes don’t point it out to anyone right, has curly blonde hair that sticks out in every which direction like he stuck a fork in a power outlet, and has surprisingly blue eyes for a Latino kid. I became friends with him when I first came to this town, he was running from some football players because he had somehow insulted their families and I stepped, the guys that didn’t run in terror at my height build and the forever angry look plastered on my face beat the shit out of me. Ever since then he has been trailing me like a lost lamb. It surprised him to find out that I really don’t like violence, even though I am 6’6-foot, dark skinned man of pure lean muscles; his words not mine. However, in the six months living here I have lost the hard, lean, muscles that many found to be my most intimidating factor.

    as Tommy pulls up to the curve blasting his emo music loud enough to hear down the block and only waits there long enough for me to get my last foot in the car, causing me to close the door as we speed down the street. I’m going to be brutally honest here, but Tommy is a very reckless driver. If he could have one hobby it would be collecting speeding tickets, he is lucky that the police in this town do not care if people speed, because even though I do not have a license I’m pretty sure you are not supposed to drive 60 mph in a 45 zone. “What is up my dude,” he has to scream over his music for me to be able to hear him over the sound of hypnotic sound of the lead singer of Panic! at the Disco’s voice.