Raging watersAgain, I found myself in a house. Unlike the previous night, this house was set by the ocean. Cliffs of rocks, crashing of waves. Mimicking the turmoil in my heart.
I had no choice. In this dream, I lived a reality of another.
Or was this another me in a different world? The way my heart beat, the feel of my hands on my legs, my body felt as real as I breathed.
I started walking down a hallway of doors. Each with a number carefully carved in silver. Modern with a thin velvet carpet till I came upon mine.
A keypad with numbers I already knew.
I opened the door. The room inside was an expanse of space. Two floors, open-concept, with a balcony and stairs facing inwards, leading to additional doors and rooms above. A centerpiece of a wall reaching to the ceiling, carved in rocks like a majestic waterfall, dried up from eons passed.
A living room sat under these glamorous pieces of rock, with L-shaped white sofas, and, to my left, a wall of windows to the ceiling. Beyond were the rocky cliffs and waves thundering to the shore. Surrounding the cliffs were more houses like my own. An expansive resort for the rich.
“Mommy.” A voice called out. My child, a son this time.
He wasn’t mine, but my heart knew him, though my eyes didn’t.
How long was I going to be here this time? Together, we explored the upstairs. Every room was as big and grand. Beds with plush comforters and a room with two singles and picture frames, decals of animals, sports figures, TV, console games, and a scattering of books.
Voices of them echoing down the hall, spirits playing tag. The hairs on my arms rose.
“Did you see the basement?” My son whispered to my ear. I couldn’t look at him. My back rigid as I pulled myself taller.
“No,” I replied. Finally, turning to study his face.
We weren’t the same. He was white with golden hair and blue eyes. I wasn’t.
I followed him down, passing an Onsen room with steam baths and clouded in a cave of darkness. Dull golden lights lit the floors. The sounds of water bubbling. Churns of foam floated on the water. Swirling in a myriad of patterns. Wet wood planks creaked as we walked through this heat.
My breathing was labored with heavy air. I stared at the dark pools, wondering if anyone drowned.
Was this a place where the unwanted came? The last bath. Forever melting into the waters like the angry tides calling from the base of the cliffs.
The boy led me on.
“You should see the rooftop. There’s a pothole with a telescope.” He turned to me and smiled. It felt weirdly forced. A smile never reached his beautiful, sharp eyes.
Why was I following him into the depths? Danger was waking my every step, but like a marionette, I had no control. I was a spectator in my dreams. Following along as I watched my demise.
He flung open a door to a kitchen lining the side of a wall — an old electric stove. A 1960s yellow-green set of cupboards, sticky with bacon grease.
“Come, Mommy.” He picked up a well-used pan. “I want some bacon and pancakes.”
“Now?” I looked down at my olive skin, confused.
“Call me when you are done,” the boy said. Suddenly standing behind me with the door by his side.
“Wait!” I shouted.
The door clicked shut.
“When you are done…,” his voice echoed.
I dashed to the cupboards and fridge.
Nothing. There was nothing except the pan and the smell of stale bacon grease.
Another night came, and I was back in this house again. There was a buzz of activity - a contractor wearing a site hat, others armed with planks of wood, more men drilling holes, hammering, and plastering.
“Yes, Ma’am. It’ll be done in time.” A bulky guy with a roll of layouts under his arm turned to me and then back to shouting at one of his guys.
Watching them buzz around felt like watching ants in a march. The sunlight was growing dim, and like a clip in a show, the scene changed, and I stood alone staring out the window at the cliffs and the waves crashing against the hardened rocks.
Plastered in the blanket of woolly darkness, the pale moon flickered.
This was the part that usually made me anxious. It was like the moon knew I was a fake. I shouldn’t be here, and yet I was. In a scene, a story, not of my making.
Voices haunting, whispers calling from below. That room, the kitchen, I escaped from when my eyes opened the next day.
And now, the living room was calling in the shadows from outside as I stood alone. Cold and shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself.
And it was here. It, he, or whatever you want to call the moon.
His unnatural breath crawled against my skin. The smell of the sea lingered in my nostrils as I felt my heart speed up and panicked at the spirit by my side.
Which part was real, and which was not? Who brought me here? Was it him or me?
I closed my eyes. Ignoring the feeling of this thing embracing my body against his all too human body.
More than a puff of air. A pressured feeling of something there, warm and yet not.
I prayed desperately for him to leave or for me to go.
I didn’t want to stay here anymore. Unraveling — a ball of wool unspun.