Tuck Me in Again
I keep having the same dream. The one where I forget about it as the day goes on, but I clearly remember once my head hits the pillow. The quiet lake reflecting a gold sunset and the overgrown, tick-infested reeds taller than my big brother are still familiar. I remember the humid, stagnant air that suffocated all noise and drowned the sound of my heavy, short breaths. I can’t move. I’m fully awake, but my limbs are locked.
I spot a large, dark mass lying motionless under the glassy water, two beady black eyes peeking above the surface. My heart races, its beat the only thing audible. Please don’t notice me. Please stay where you are. But I watch as more of it emerges from the brackish lake, snaking toward me, brushing through the reeds. It’s as long and wide as a kayak, as gray as my grandma’s hair. It has ridges starting from the back of its head to the tip of its powerful tail, four stubby legs with webbed claws, a round snout, and uneven teeth spiking out of its mouth.
When it gets close enough to lunge at me, snap me in its jaws, pull me underwater, roll me like a washing machine, let me rot on the slimy bottom of the lake… I run. I flail up the hill, zigzagging like the girls at school told me to. But it’s gaining on me, ignoring the rules of tag by not following my zigzag pattern. The girls lied. I abandon reasoning and just run like it’s field day. Like I’m playing Capture the Flag, and this is the final sprint to home base. Except now, my opponent is twice my size, ruthless, and getting closer. Its jaws are opening, inches away from snapping at my bare feet. I’m screaming, screaming, trying not to wet my pants.
Every nightmare ends this way. I think the alligator gets me, but I wake up with a sharp breath, eyes flaring open, hands clutching my polka dot sheets, and body tensing so hard that I might levitate. A nightlight casts a familiar blue glow. As I acknowledge the Disney princess backpack by my open door, the Legos haphazardly organized in rainbow-colored bins, and the ballerina stuffed bunny on my bed, I realize that I’m in my room. I lie in terrified silence, listening to the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan overhead, waiting for my heartbeat to match its pace. The fan freezes the sweat on my arms and on the back of my neck, plastering my unruly hair to my skin. Every time I close my eyes, I can see it. I can see it lunging at me, snapping onto my leg. My breathing quivers with fear, and I know I can’t go back to sleep. I need my mom.
Swinging my legs out of my fuzzy tangled blankets, I stumble out of my room and into a large hallway, heading for my parents’ bedroom. In the empty, tiled hallway, the night’s darkness shrouds the high ceilings, hiding the light fixtures, while shadows blanket beige arched columns scattered evenly across the room. It still smells like dust.
My bare feet pad gently over the cold tile in small steps, afraid of waking up the darkness. Only then did I realize I’m holding my stuffed bunny closely to my chest, squeezing the life out of her, wrinkling her pink ballerina skirt. I see my parents’ bedroom door, outlined by a strong yellow light. It’s slightly cracked open, leaking my mom’s and dad’s muffled voices. Breaking out into a relieved smile, I hasten my steps, eager to swing that door open wide and babble about my nightmare. I want my dad to pick me up and sit me on his knee. I want my mom to tell me not to cry with her hushed voice.
But as I get to the entrance, I stop. My eyes grow wider when I hear their harsh tones. They’re arguing. My mom has adopted that voice she gets when she’s punishing me. My dad is yelling back at her. Through the sliver of the cracked door, I see my mom pacing around the bed, pausing in front of a floral green lamp, and throwing her hands in the air.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this!” My mom says, “You can’t—”
My dad interrupts her, leaping from his seat on the bed. As he moves, his back blocks my view of my mom. I can’t see what her hands do, what her lips move to say. His words muffle hers. His arms push hers down and away.
I don’t understand what they’re talking about. They’re saying words I had never heard before. But I understand the shouting. I understand they’re angry at each other. When I hear my mom’s voice crack and I hear her sniffle, my breathing stops. The world stops. I don’t care about the shadows and the alligator anymore. My numb hands almost drop my bunny. Taking care not to make another sound, I slowly back away from the door. Dazed, I walk back to the gaping jaws of my nightmare, but I hardly notice. I can only picture my mom’s tears running down her freckled face as the darkness wraps around my ankles and pulls me back to my room.
Jasmine Lien is the Co-Editor-in-Chief for her college news site. Now an undergraduate senior, she is the Editor-in-Chief of her college news publication. In addition to writing news articles, she enjoys writing creative short stories and poems that illuminate the everyday aspects of life. In the near – or distant – future, she hopes to pursue copy editing and content creation.