Page 29 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
And holes. There are holes everywhere on her. Little holes marked in red. Big holes with even bigger red. On her chest and her tummy and her arms and her throat.
She moves her head to look at me. Her hair falls off her face and I see it. The handle of the scissors looks funny standing up out of the side of her neck.
Her previous warnings not to run with scissors flicker through my mind. Did she run with them? She couldn’t have. She’s lying down.
Something’s not right. Can’t be. My brain isn’t working, my body frozen in fear.
“Dad!” I remember he’s in the room. Look up to get help. But he’s right there. Looming above me. Like the monster in my dream. And I see the spots on his shirt are dark red. Just like the dots of it over the skin of his arms. His hands.
Just like blood all over my mom.
She gasps. I think she says “No,” but I don’t know because it sounds like she’s underwater.
My whole body shakes. My eyes blink over and over, but I can’t make this nightmare go away.
Get up. Call the police. Get help. Save her. Save me. Mom. Oh my God, Mom. I need Band-Aids. Fix her cuts. Stop the bleeding. It will help.
Band-Aids. Go get them to help her.
But I don’t move. Can’t.
“If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll do the same thing to you.” His words shock me. But I know that tone. Know when he uses it, he means business. The sting of his belt on my bare bottom is a constant reminder to listen to him.
The door shuts with a slam.
I need to help her. Have to. My hand on the scissors.
The blood like a river. The silver stained red.
A gasp of breath. Blank eyes staring up at me. Her hand limp in mine.
If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll do the same thing to you.
It doesn’t matter.
I won’t tell anyone.
I don’t think I could speak if I wanted to.
“Where the fuck am I?” Something startles me awake as the dream ends, disorients me, confuses me. I take quick stock of things: It’s dark outside now and the towel from my shower earlier is still wrapped around my waist. I shove up out of the bed, swing my legs over the edge, and scrub my hands over my face to give myself a second to deal. And to give me time for a running start to escape if this is the dream and that was my reality.
My pulse pounds. My head is so fucked by the nightmare it’s not even funny. The breath I blow out doesn’t help. The repeated fucks I say out loud to the empty room don’t either.
I’ve dreamed that nightmare so many times I know it by heart. Because it’s not a dream. It’s my memory. My childhood reality. So perfectly clear. Like I’m back there. The smell. The fear. The sound of my mom’s voice. So damn bittersweet. My mom’s last words, my last memory of her . . . is my worst memory of her. Time hasn’t faded any of it. Time hasn’t healed old wounds.
Fuck no.
But why now? Why did the nightmare come back after so many years without it?
And then I remember the one part of the dream that’s new. The scissors. The hilt in her neck. The slippery feel of it beneath my fingers. Her whimper in pain as I pulled on it. The gush of blood. How I tried to save her.
And ended up killing her.
I roll my shoulders. Take in a deep breath. Rationalize in my adult mind that the little boy trying to save her didn’t really kill her. The autopsy may have said that the cause of death was her bleeding out when the scissors lodged in her jugular vein were removed, but I know deep down she was dead before that.
But knowing it and accepting it are two entirely different things. And accepting it and not letting it fuck you up is even harder.
I nod my head and take a deep breath, knowing that’s why I’m here: to deal with the past at last so I can make things right with those who gave me a future.
