Prologue
Running. Must keep running…
All around are shadows. Streetlights expand and contract before my eyes in the greenish-gloom of a moonless night.
“You failed. We know you failed. You failed AGAIN!”
To my right is a brick wall. I’m barefoot, and my gown is too thin. It’s too white and too thin, and I’m shaking so hard. It’s so cold. Must keep running…
Whispering voices, “You can’t escape.”
Wet pavement is under my feet. I almost slip on the slime covering it. The noise of traffic tells me I’m in a city, but nothing is familiar. I’m lost.
Keep running…
An alley yawns to my left, and I dash down it trying to escape the hissing voices, only the further I run, the narrower it grows. It’s closing in on me… It’s a dead end!
Turn back! Only… They’re there.
Walking slowly, they close in on me. They’re dressed in black with buttons and badges. Black uniforms and guns. I can see the whites of their eyes, the whites of their teeth.
Sinister smiles with glittering eyes above them. “You can’t escape.”
Dodge to the right—Oh! Water! I’ve slipped. I’m falling…
My stomach flies to my throat as the asphalt zooms toward my face.
“NO!” I scream, kicking the covers off my legs as quickly as possible, slapping back the hands. A large one reaches for my arm, and I slap it away. “Don’t touch me!”
I frantically push higher, my back against the headboard. My stomach cramps so hard, I bend forward. Sweat coats my skin in a thin sheen, causing my entire body to shake.
“Mariska!” Stuart’s voice finds me in the darkness. Commanding even in sleep, he steadies me with his strength. With a trembling exhale, I collapse to a sitting position on the pillows. “You’re okay. It was a dream.”
Just a dream. The room slowly comes into focus as I blink away the haze. Tan walls dotted with brown wooden shelves. Our blankets are a jumbled heap at my feet, and the familiar, comfy suede leather chair faces me from across the room. I’m warm and dry and safe.
I can just ma
ke out the broad, sculpted shoulders of my fiancé silhouetted in the dim light, and I reach out to smooth his dark hair, a messy bedhead. I can’t see his hazel eyes, but I know they’re serious, focused as always.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry…” I don’t know what else to say. I haven’t had such a vivid nightmare in years. Not since I met Stuart.
“I’ve got you.” Strong hands pull me to his chest. “You’re okay.”
One final tremor, and my muscles begin to relax in his embrace. I rest my cheek against his bare skin inhaling his warm scent, cedar and Stuart, and we slide down into the blankets. He pulls them over us and a deep sense of protection calms my fears as I lie in the shelter of his arms.
He rubs my back slowly, slowly soothing us both with his touch. “Go back to sleep now.”
I hold him, listening as his breathing gradually returns to normal then to the slow rhythm of sleep. I can’t sleep. Even safe in his strong arms, my eyes are wide open. I try to make sense of the dream, replaying all of it. It wasn’t anywhere I recognized. Everything was unfamiliar to me.
Blinking in the darkness, I wish for my dream journal. I wish for my grandmother, my Yaya. She could interpret dreams, but I never could. I only have them, then I have to wait for the events to occur to understand the meanings.
I don’t want the events of this dream to occur…
A shimmer of fear moves through my stomach, and I clutch Stuart tighter. His muscles flex as he pulls me closer. Several long, troubled minutes pass before I’m able to close my eyes again, but the nightmare lingers in my subconscious.
1
Daydreams
Mariska
June in Montana is nothing like December. The last time we were here, at Stuart’s uncle Bill’s ranch, the vast expanse of prairie was pale beige and deep brown under a steely winter sky. Now the grasses are deep green dotted with darker sagebrush. Bluebonnets mix with bright yellow balsamroot, and in the distance, the mountains are a smoky purple haze rising above it all. Waterfalls roar over black rocks along the Missouri River, and as always, the Technicolor sky spans as far as the eye can see into the horizon.
My fingers itch for my paintbrushes. Standing on the aged rail fence clutching my coffee cup, I decide to drive into town for supplies. I’ll stretch a canvas and spend the afternoon lost in a sea of acrylics, capturing as much of this gorgeousness as I can. The Indian blanket itches as I pull it tighter around my shoulders. I sip the hot, dark liquid and close my eyes, imagining how it will look—bold colors and strong lines, fierce as the landscape.