Dreams (Jeremiah)

Flashes of memory.

My childhood.

Really, that was just my abandonment stretched out over a period of hopeful, but dashed, maybes; yeah, that was the better word for it: my abandonment--it wasn't anything that could be called something as romantic as a childhood.

Both physically by my father and then emotionally by the shell of a woman he had jumped ship on, I hadn't been raised, I'd been left behind.

My mother had probably been a good woman at one time or another--and for what it was worth, she never outright abused me.

She tried to be a good mom, in the moments of lucidity or emotional overtaking, but she was addicted to acidic chemicals that the person she had trusted most had given her and it had rotted her own world out from under her feet.

The only difference between him and her was that he'd managed to hide the decay longer than she had; just long enough, in fact, to bring her down with him. And to make me.

Slowly, more images came in, as if my line of thought was being mined for some unknown advantage--or, at least, I couldn't really remember to whose advantage it might be anymore.

The black fog swirled and coalesced back into form, my form, but not the one this new world had given me.

It was my first body, but it was far younger than the one I left Earth behind with.

I knew this place I was in. Shadow filled the space, but not to the extreme that I'd remembered.

The furniture of my small room was about the only things kept clean in the apartment my mom had somehow managed to keep us in--for a while, at least.

Funny, my head still wasn't on right. Was I dreaming? That's what it felt like.

In fact, I'd had this dream more than once. So many times.

She had a spaced out look in her eyes. I always hated it, but it was better than the terrifying euphoria that would precede it. I always avoided her when she was like that.

That was what I had been doing, before this moment, I remembered: I'd been hiding, tucked away in one of the little safe spaces that I'd found for myself. I had a stuffed rabbit in my hand, one of the few toys I'd had to my name; I remembered it as a buttress against the pain and loneliness.

She never really tried to hide it; I could see the pill container, splashed open and its contents scattered over half scribbled job applications and acceptance essays that would never reasonably be read by anyone.

The round, white demons were nothing of pharmaceutical quality, not anymore--and I always wonder how she'd managed to keep getting them after my dad bailed.

I hadn't know at the time, but the drug hadn't even made it past clinical trials; how my father had gotten it into my mother's and his hands originally, I also had no idea.

The fact that the stuff that had any purity to it had quickly dried up, in the years following their addiction taking hold, didn't help anyone.

The track marks were clear on her arms.

The needle she'd used lay as discarded as the remaining pills; it half spilled out a droplet of distilled pain and poison in the silver moonlight. I felt myself cringe, even a kid knew that stabbing yourself wasn't normal.

Whatever high she was chasing, the drugs--originally meant to boost cognitive performance--just weren't doing it anymore.

It was almost funny: the fact that the body would become incredibly dependent on the concoction, that my mother had now taken to grinding up and pushing into her veins, wasn't actually the reason it had been shot down by the regulatory bodies.

It wasn't right, they said, to make man smarter than he needed to be. At least, that kind of power couldn't be in the hands of the average person.

It was probably how he'd sold her on it. My father I mean. They'd both been rebellious and spoiled, unaware of the real blessings they'd been born into. What better way to stick it to the authority than to take a pill that let them easily balance acing their classes and partying it up?

But the world didn't work like that. My life, which had been considerably less pampered than theirs, had taught me early that everything cheap came with a trade off. It was a lesson they could've used.

"Mom?" my small, hesitant voice asked.

She slowly looked up to me from where she sat in the rocking chair, a melancholy smile spread across her sagging lips.

It was sad: by this point, I knew how to time the stages she went through.

"It's okay, baby," she said.

Of course, none of what she'd done or how she'd put us into such a shitty situation really mattered to me back then.

I walked to her on legs that had only learned how a few years ago.

I really hoped she was sobering up enough to pick me up. I missed her arms so much.

Imagine my happiness when she actually did. It was the small things that gave a child joy, I reflected as she pulled me into her chest.

My arms wrapped around her and hers did the same to me.

No, I didn't hate her at all. Even on into adulthood, I never would.

With her being the only parent I would ever know, I was chasing my own sorta high. The worst and most corrosive kind of all, if you happened to get addicted to the wrong source: that of love.

And with that, we fell back into the regular routine now. Her thin fingers slipped into my messy and uncombed, carmine hair.

"I'm so sorry, sweety."

She'd always apologize.

"It's okay mom," I said and pulled her closer.

I'd always accept it too though.

I think I actually felt responsible for absolving her of her pain. Maybe I just hoped she'd do the same to mine, but to do that would take more than words.

It didn't matter, really. That hadn't happened. I knew how this dream ended.

A strong knocking came at the door.

Yeah, I definitely knew the way this all went.

It all ended in more pain, really; no matter how badly people tried to fix things, some things could only be made worse by good intentions.

My mother began to sob; her hand tightened in my hair, not that she was hurting me or anything. "I'm going to stop. I promise. I'm done."

Yeah, that was easy to say when the pain of need was not wracking her dependence addled body.

Still, I felt that same hope swell in my chest. It didn't matter that my waking mind knew how it would turn out-- how things would change forever on even this very night.

The knock came again.

"I'm done, I promise," she said; she seemed completely oblivious to the noise coming from the small entryway of the one bedroom apartment.

"Okay, mom," I said and held her closer; my own tears began to run down my tiny cheeks.

It wasn't really okay.

The knock would only come once more, I remembered and then--

The sound of a door unlocking and turning open echoed out.

My mom, not completely gone from all but the immediate world around her, after all, looked up in concern at the noise.

"Just wait here, baby," she said.

I wouldn't.

My world chilled to a numb detachment as I let her guide me off her lap and onto the mostly-vacuumed carpet.

As she walked outside that bedroom door, I tried to hesitate to follow her, but, well, that just wasn't the memory--and this dream had never been merciful.

We entered into the living room together. I followed carefully behind her, a part of me knowing I never would again.

There was a stark contrast between my mother and the woman before her. One wore little more than a old t-shirt and underwear. The other was groomed and professional, though about the same age.

"Miss Knight?" the woman asked.

My tiny heart beat fast. Even my memory's body knew this couldn't be good.

But then... somehow, there was a change.

I blinked and time didn't quite flow the way it should've.

[Possession counter reduced to 5%.]

"Dad?" my mom said.

This wasn't the memory.

[Possession counter reduced to 1%.]

The official looking intruder was replaced with a man I had never known.

No one acted like the switch was at all odd.

My mother looked hesitant to greet him.

"Cassandra, I'm sorry about everything," he said.

"I'm just so--" he was cut off by my mother grabbing him and hugging him.

"I missed you so much, daddy," she said.

His arms slowly moved up to embrace his daughter back.

I'd never met my grandfather. I was pretty sure he'd passed away before I'd been old enough to meet him, but this man looked like a younger version of the few pictures I'd managed to find.

[Possession counter increased to 5%.]

"I missed you too," he said.

My mom pulled back somewhat; her face grew a bit more concerned.

"Does mom know--" she hesitated.

The man just let his hands move up to rest on her shoulders with reassurance. "She doesn't matter. I'm here to help my daughter."

I saw the hesitance. "I don't know if I can, dad."

He looked back at me for the first time, before returning his gaze to Cassandra. "Please. Try again. Your son needs a mother."

He paused. "And a family. He deserves a life, Cassandra."

His daughter still hesitated and she cast her eyes down in shame, as more tears began to fall from them. "I can't--"

He grabbed her by the chin and made her look at him. "Cassandra. No. You have to. We'll try again, okay?"

Their eyes met, neither was dry, and my mother glanced back to me.

She slowly nodded. "Okay."

My grandfather smiled with a hesitant, but relived expression, before slowly turning his gaze back to me.

He lowered himself to one knee and spoke to me in a tone I'd always dreamed of hearing, that which only a grandparent could give to a child. "Hey there, champ. I've wanted to meet you for a long time."

I knew that this wasn't right. Somewhere, deep down, I realized that this wasn't the dream.

[Possession counter decreased to 3%.]

Maybe, though... maybe that was okay.

[Possession counter increased to 30%.]

I gripped my rabbit up to my chest for strength.

And then, well, I went to meet my grandfather for the very first time.

[Possession counter increased to 50%.]

It was a much better dream.