Kristen smiled. “I’d love to meet her.”
“Excellent,” I nodded. “Is there any chance I might meet your mother one day?”
Kristen’s face fell visibly. “I don’t know,” she said, at last.
“Hey, no pressure, okay?” I assured her. “We can take things at the pace you’re comfortable with.”
She smiled, but I could see the uncertainty etched across her face. “Thank you,” she replied. I wondered if it was just my imagination again, or if her voice shook just a little.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kristen
I was standing on the front lines in my military uniform. There was a rifle in my hand, and I felt ready for battle. Smoke and dust filled the air, and I couldn’t see two feet in front of me. I knew that I was surrounded, and I knew that I would have to act fast if I wanted to survive.
I was about to charge into the fray when Daphne materialized in front of me. She was wearing a white dress with bloodstains on the front of it. Her hair was wet and plastered to her face, and her eyes were sad—but there was a savage wildness about her that I didn’t quite understand.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Me?” Daphne asked. “This is my world; you are the one who shouldn’t be here.”
I looked around me, and suddenly, I knew that bombs were about to rain down on both of us. “We have to go,” I told her. “Or we’re both going to die.”
Daphne stood where she was and shook her head at me. “This is what you signed up for,” she said. “This is what you asked for when you stole my life.”
I felt my body grow cold. “I didn’t steal anything,” I protested.
“That’s my uniform you’re wearing,” she said.
I looked down at the nametag on the front of my uniform and realized the nametag read Daphne. I started breathing fast as I tried to keep my calm. “Daphne, we have to go…”
“You’re just like your mother,” she said with venom. “She took my father away from my mother, and you’re doing the same to me.”
“That’s not fair,” I screamed. “It’s not the same thing.”
Daphne shook her head at me. “It’s exactly the same. You just don’t want to admit that you’re like her.”
Then the bombs rained down on us, and I crashed to the ground, knowing that I was drowning, knowing that I was dying.
I woke up thrashing around in my bed, gripping my sheets as though I were grappling for life. A thin gleam of sweat glimmered on my skin, and I felt weak and out of breath. I got out of bed and walked to my window to get some fresh air. The nightmare had me feeling dejected and panicked, and I realized that my denial wasn’t going to hold out for much longer.
It was six in the morning, and thankfully, I didn’t have to beat work today. I went to the bathroom for a quick shower, hoping that I could shake off the terrible nightmare and the sinking feeling it had left me with. I changed into jeans and a soft sweater and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast.
I rummaged around in the fridge, having decided to make myself an omelet, but then I realized I probably wouldn’t be able to hold anything down. I ended up sitting on my couch, staring at the blank screen of my television, wondering what on earth was wrong with me. Just as I was thinking that, my phone started vibrating, and I looked down to see that my mother was calling me.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “Maybe I’m still having the nightmare.”
I knew I shouldn’t have, but the dream I’d just had was still influencing me, and I felt compelled to answer the call. The moment I picked up, my mother spoke in her blunt and infuriating tone.
“Praise the Lord, you actually picked up.”
“Should I regret that?”
“It’s been weeks since we last spoke.”
“You were being difficult,” I reminded her.
“Excuse me?” Mom asked, sounding affronted.