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Chased
She hears the same meaty sound, every time; the same small gasp for air, and then the sound of a body hitting the snow. Every time, she goes in the opposite direction, hoping not to find the day that her father died, and every time it finds her instead. She even stops running, at one point, but it doesn't do anything. The memory comes upon her every time.
"Get out of my head!" she yells aloud, sitting up. For a moment, she's hopeful that she's woken up -- hopeful for the first time in more than a week, since she hasn't gotten much sleep in that time, and she needs all that she can get.
But it's her own home that greets her eyes, and she knows that she's not really there. So it's a dream.
It's different than usual, in any case. All of her personal touches are gone. All of her mother's books are gone. Whereas home is familiar, this could be someone else's home easily. Especially since most of the homes have the exact same layout.
Someone raps on the door, and she feels all of her muscles freeze at once.
"Meja. Meja? We're going out now. Come on. Don't be late." It's her father's voice: terse, belligerent, somewhat drunk. The way she remembers it most. "Meja, you're holding up our rounds."
"We never had rounds," she murmurs, sinking further into her blankets. Resentment floods every pore. "You never told me anything about this."
He continues to jabber away, never coming inside, and Meja just climbs into her blankets and pretends not to hear him.
Until she wakes up, exhausted.
"Get out of my head!" she yells aloud, sitting up. For a moment, she's hopeful that she's woken up -- hopeful for the first time in more than a week, since she hasn't gotten much sleep in that time, and she needs all that she can get.
But it's her own home that greets her eyes, and she knows that she's not really there. So it's a dream.
It's different than usual, in any case. All of her personal touches are gone. All of her mother's books are gone. Whereas home is familiar, this could be someone else's home easily. Especially since most of the homes have the exact same layout.
Someone raps on the door, and she feels all of her muscles freeze at once.
"Meja. Meja? We're going out now. Come on. Don't be late." It's her father's voice: terse, belligerent, somewhat drunk. The way she remembers it most. "Meja, you're holding up our rounds."
"We never had rounds," she murmurs, sinking further into her blankets. Resentment floods every pore. "You never told me anything about this."
He continues to jabber away, never coming inside, and Meja just climbs into her blankets and pretends not to hear him.
Until she wakes up, exhausted.