Chasing Stars ✔️

10.

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves."
― Lisa Mantchev

She

The noise was getting louder, or maybe just more present in my sleepy mind. My eyes open wide to the darkness of the room. I turn to get my small body out of the bed, my tiny feet finding comfort in the velvety carpet. From under the door, the yellow artificial light announces someone is walking around in the house.

I twist the knob with both my hands, supporting my weight on the tip of my toes, blinking at the full illuminated house as soon as the door opens. A movement at the end of the corridor catches my eye - a flick of red color that I would recognize anywhere as my mother's bright hair.

A scream is muffled; there are noises of movement embedded with faint voices. Cautiously, I walk into the space that separates me from the door, where I saw my mom's hair disappear. With hesitant and fearful steps, I push the door, and the noise comes to life. There are cries, begged words, excuses, and promises, shut down by the violent closing of a door. The key turns in the lock.

My mother's cry echoes in my head ruthlessly, and I know I will never forget. The voice of panic is my mother's voice, locked in the dark room that haunts her nightmares. Helpless against panic; against my father's punishing gesture.

"Go to bed, Alexandra. Go to bed and sleep." His voice is calm, controlled, always collected. He says the words while caressing my hair. There is something so smooth about the way he moves, about the way he speaks. It's the shocking contrast with my mom's screams and sobs.

"I don't know if I can, Daddy."

He drops to his knees. Beside us, the door of the closet where my mother is locked shakes with each tap of her fists. My father smiles the sweetest smile; his voice has a singing quality to it as if he belongs in a land of dreams.

"You will, little one. You will do as I tell you." His large hand moves to cup my cheek. "You wouldn't want to be punished as well; would you, my little flower?" his lips, warm and soft, connect with my forehead.

My body jerked up in the bed as I took a deep, shaky breath. My hand instantly flew to my forehead. It felt slightly wet. I run my hand across it, still trying to stabilize my breathing.

Sweat, I thought, looking down at my hand, although I couldn't really see in the room's darkness. It took a few more shaky breaths before being able to move. Turning the lights on was a priority.

The first thing I found in the blind exploration of my bedside table was my phone; good enough to cast light around.

I confirmed I was in my bed. Miss blush spread lazily at my feet, looking at me through semi-open, and not very sympathetic, eyes. I couldn't blame her. It was 3 am, after all. Not that I could control my nightmares.

Nightmares. Was that even the right word to use when memories visit you in your sleep?

My body dropped like a dead weight against the softness of my pillow. My legs moved rhythmically up and down until I successfully push the blue sheets off my body. They felt wrong against my skin, too heavy and uncomfortable. But, again, I already knew that everything would feel like that for the rest of the day.

What a way to start the weekend.

Tossing and turning around on the bed was a self-torture exercise. As usual, after a nightmare, sleep wouldn't come, but I remained lying down, closing my eyes, refusing to leave the bedroom before the first rays of the sun.

When I finally got up, I decided I would keep myself busy. Part of me wanted to do what Dr. B suggested, go shopping, watch a movie, be a 19-year-old girl. At college, I would have friends to call and hang out with, but at Westport, I was not just any girl. I was my mother's daughter, the product of my nightmare.