The Nightmares Woke Him Again
By Hannah Lovejoy
The nightmares woke him again
Seemed the nightmares were occurring more frequently since he'd stopped the drugs, the alcohol, the partying. Was that a blessing or a curse? he wondered, rubbing his eyes, as he sat up in the cot he'd designated as his. He checked his phone, hidden securely underneath his body to prevent it from being stolen: no message from her. No messages from anyone. Two AM.
He usually took a nap after work, though it always meant he couldn't sleep at night. But it was the only thing that kept him going, these snatches of blissful oblivion.
At least until his brother's screams got into his mind again, pervaded his dreams, turned those into nightmares.
He stretched a little, extending his arms above his head, then scrambled underneath the cot for the bottle of medication he had been given by the owners of the shelter. Depression pills used to regulate his moods. He dry-swallowed three.
His head was hurting. He texted her: "Hey."
Less than a minute later, the phone buzzed and her name showed on the screen. He smiled, and wondered if she automatically smiled upon seeing his name. He wondered what she had listed him as. Probably not "Babe," her nickname for him. He wondered if she'd called her ex-boyfriend that, too.
He wondered an awful lot about her, ever since he'd completely fucked things up between the two of them.
The drugs, he thought, and dragged his hand over his face. The drugs. They'd ruined him for her. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the anger, the absolute frigid fury that had turned into complete heartbroken shock.
"I could have loved you!" she'd screamed at him. It was the only time she'd ever truly lost control in front of him. He was the only one who could push her to that brink, something he had enjoyed doing.
She had had such faith in him, faith he'd taken total advantage of.
He had been so confident that she would never leave him. His ex hadn't, not after four years. He should have realized that eventually she would.
It'd happened. Now he loved her, and she didn't want him.
Funny how that worked.
She was supportive now, encouraging his dreams in that way she always had - he had never really paid attention to how much support she'd given him.
The long conversations, the laughter, the flirting, the kissing, the sex, the sharing of hopes and wishes. He had taken those for granted, and she was gone. She wouldn't be his anymore.
He thought back to the last time they'd hung out, only a few days ago. He had asked her to dance with him. She was so hesitant, but had let him put his hands on her waist -- she really didn't want him touching her. She had loved to have him touch her, and now it was as if the girl he had thought he'd figured out didn't exist anymore. And then she'd tripped over her own feet and brought him crashing to the ground with her. They'd ended up with his head in her lap, her hands combing through his hair, her lips brushing his forehead, his nose, his cheeks - but not his mouth.
She wouldn't even kiss him.
He wanted her desperately. He loved her desperately.
After he'd let loose his secret and shattered her into pieces and left her behind, he had kept tabs on her. He saw she had found someone else. She had never made her relationship with him public. Considering he'd constantly been in one fuck-up or another, he could understand her reasons. She was such an intensely private person, and she bore her pain silently.
"Do you want to dance?" he texted her.
"If I trip, you're coming down with me," came her reply.
"I'll catch you :)" he replied.
A few minutes went by, and his palms began to sweat. She'd never ignored one of his texts or messages. It was one of the things he loved about her: she was always there for him, even when life got in the way.
He could never be there for her. He'd disappointed her with that. He had ditched her so many times - usually to go light up, though he doubted she knew that was the reason.
He was clean now. Clean, sober, had sworn off the girls, was in therapy and had a steady job. His life was -- well, if it wasn't perfect, at least it was somewhat stable.
Finally his phone buzzed again: "Good luck doing that, kid :p"
He called her, pressing his phone to his ear as he dragged on shorts and a T-shirt. "Hey, it's me," he said.
"Hey, you," she said, and he could have sworn she was smiling. "What's up, Babe?"
Babe. He grinned. "Did I wake you up?"
“Nah," she said, then amended, "well, yeah." He heard her muffled yawn. "What do I owe this unexpected call to?"
"I, uh, was wondering if I could come over. I....had a bad dream."
"Oh, baby," she said, her voice softening. "I'll meet you outside."
He had to bribe his friend to drive him, but a half hour later he was at her house, walking towards her. She was wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a baggy shirt that revealed one shoulder gleaming in the moonlight. Her hair was tied up, as always, although he remembered tugging the band from it and tangling his fingers in the long silky strands....
"Hey," he said.
"You look exhausted....you haven't been sleeping," she said, by way of greeting.
He laughed. "Thanks, Lovely."
He saw her quick, pleased grin at his usage of the old nickname. She was still his Lovely.
"Same dream?" she asked.
He nodded; she held out her arms to envelop him in a tight hug, resting her head on his shoulder and smoothing her hands over his back in a comforting gesture. He gently slid one hand underneath her shirt, just to feel the warm skin, and she stiffened. He shrugged a little, then leaned forward and murmured in her ear: "Your skin is so soft."
She made a face at him, then stuck out her tongue. An old ritual. He returned the gesture; they smiled at each other. She pulled back, but allowed him to keep his hand on her lower back as they walked together through the field.
"Beautiful night," he said. Above them, the stars gleamed. He loved it out here, where she lived -- it was free, a wide expanse of space where they could hide and never be found if they wanted to. How many nights had they spent under the stars together, alternately making love, cuddling, and talking?
She sat on the grass, tugging him down with her. They sat Indian-style across from each other, holding hands. "What happened in the dream this time?" she said, leaning forward and pressing her mouth to his forehead in a brief, gentle kiss. It was her way of getting him to open up; it always worked. Just that gentle little touch of her lips on his skin. He let out a sigh.
"Just....memories," he said, looking at their intertwined hands. "All I see is him now. He's always there."
"Does he say anything?"
"I hear him scream," he said. "We're in the store, buying milk and bread for our parents. He picked up a Reese's Cup for his girlfriend, because chocolate was the only thing she could keep down."
Her brow furrowed. "She was -- "
"Mhm. I have a nephew. Aiden. I...can't keep in touch. It's too hard."
"I'm sure it must be." She ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead again.
"I like when you do that," he said.
"I know. It's comforting to both of us. Go on."
He let his thumb rub over her knuckles. "I-I remember them coming in. Two of them. He saw them first. He knew something was wrong. Maybe he saw the guns, I don't know -- " He nearly choked on the words as they poured out of him. It had been so long since he'd talked about this.
He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. "But I remember his shout: 'Get down, get down!' It was over so fast. The shots. Pow, pow, pow. He jumped in front of me. I wouldn't go down. I didn't listen to him -- " He closed his eyes.
His brother's scream as the bullets tore through him. Could there ever have been a worse sound than that cry of pain and fear? The weight of his twin's body as he collapsed. The smell of the blood: acrid, tangy, coppery. The feel of it, soaking through his new shoes. A birthday gift. Pristine white Air Jordans, now ruined.
That dark scarlet splashing on his body as he dragged his twin into his arms, holding him, trying to staunch the flow. He'd stripped off his shirt, holding it to the wounds as his tears mixed with the blood.
Praying. Don't take him. Don't take him. Don't take him, God, please.
Crying. No, no, no, no.
Pleading. Stay alive, bro. Stay for me. I can't make it without you.
His brother’s voice, fading. Take…care…of…baby.
He was jolted out of the memory by the feel of her lips tracing the tears as they spilled down his face. He allowed himself to be drawn into her lap, looking up at her and the stars. In the dim light, her blue eyes glowed as she shook her hair loose from its hair-band, letting the blonde locks spill over them: a curtain for privacy. He reached up, ran his fingers through it, enjoyed the scent of her perfume mixed with the apple conditioner she used. Her hair was still damp from her morning shower, even though it was now three in the morning.
"Thick-hair problems," he said, giving a chunk of her hair a light tug.
"Says the boy who buzzed most of his off," she said, one corner of her mouth turning up - her special little half-smile. "I might dye it blue."
"Along with getting your nose pierced," he teased.
"That will happen," she protested.
"You'll need me to hold your hand, you big baby."
She caught his hands in hers, tangling their fingers together, bringing them to her mouth for a kiss. They lay there in silence for a moment, until he said:
"You're the only one who can make me feel okay. Even talking about....this. Him."
"What was he like?" she said, at almost the same time.
"Sexy, like me." He grinned.
"No, really," she said, giving his chin a flick with her finger.
"Ow! Ow, fine. He was my better half," he murmured. "Always looked out for me, you know? He was the good twin. He kept me out of trouble. I wanted to be....like him, you know? We were the same age, and I looked up to him. He always felt older than me."
"An old soul," she said, smiling a little. "They say that about twins, sometimes. They have this bond that can't be broken. Kind of like the idea that your soulmate is your better half, the part that makes you feel whole. I wonder if that's where the idea came from, from twins."
"It makes sense," he said, amazed at her ability to always put his thoughts into words. How did she do it?
"All those jokes we made about good twin, bad twin....never thought they'd be true," she mused. "A rebellious little shit even back then, huh?"
"Who, me?" he cracked.
She leaned down, caught his lower lip between her teeth, gave it a little nip. The blood rushed from his head straight to his groin; he swallowed audibly. "Don't do that to me," he said. "You'll drive me insane."
"Like you did?" she said, her tone light and teasing. "Many times, I might add. Dick."
"You loved it, Baby."
She pulled his shirt up, drawing designs on the bare skin of his stomach. He shivered as her fingers brushed over the long knotted scar that stretched from his rib cage to his side. "This was from that day, wasn't it?" she asked.
He nodded. "Got a bullet in me somewhere, too."
"You sound so damn proud." Again her fingers were moving, tracing the waistband of his shorts.
"Lovely..." Just that simple touch had him gritting his teeth to hold back the urge to kiss her - and more. She was such a simple but deadly force, knew how to arouse him in ways no other girl could.
"Sorry!" She jerked her hand back, but he saw her self-satisfied smirk and knew she wasn't truly apologetic.
"Uh-uh," he said, and pulled her on top of him, tickling her. She let out a shriek that could have woken the dead.
"Noooooooooo!" she said, giggling. "Stoooooooop."
"Beg for mercy." He flipped her over so that he was on top, pinning her down. "I'll make you beg," he whispered in her ear.
"It should not be this easy for you to keep me on the ground." She scowled. "Let me up."
"Or what?" He was straddling her now, his knees on either side of her, and the friction intensified. He lowered his mouth to her throat and felt the pulse jumping there. "What's the matter, baby...you scared?"
She tilted her head to one side, allowing him access to her neck. "You kill me."
"You love me," he said.
"Do I?"
"Eight months, Lovely. Can't forget all that."
"Why not? You did. Over and over."
He looked into her eyes and saw the mixed emotions: the lust, the anger, the hurt, the love.
He loved her. She loved him.
They both knew it.
"One more chance. Please," he said. "I promise...I'll make it work. My life is a mess, it's fucked up. But I'll make it work for you. Para siempre." He released her wrists but leaned over her, watching her expressions. She toyed with the cross he had worn around his neck since his twin had been killed. His twin's cross. He had never taken it off.
Until now.
He reached behind him and undid the clasp, allowing the necklace to slip off. It felt as though a weight had been lifted as the past slid from his neck onto hers. "Will you wear this?"
"I-I-I can't," she said. "Oh, Babe, I can't. It's yours."
"I'm yours," he said, his throat tightening. "I'm yours, okay? I know I fucked everything up, but I realized after we split that I was in love with you. Am in love with you. I'm yours."
She turned so that her back was to him. "Can you fasten it for me?"
His hands were shaking as much as her voice as he gently secured the clasp.
The cross had witnessed so much of his life. Every mistake, every triumph he had ever made was embedded in it. The suicide attempts, the scars that covered his body -- the cross had seen it all. Hanging from her neck, the cross fell just below her throat. It wasn't a pretty piece of jewelry, no; but it looked somehow right on her. He moved her so that she was against his chest, his head tucked in to her shoulder, his arms around her waist.
He wondered if she could feel how much his heart was pounding against his chest. "I love you," he said.
"I love you," she said quietly, and then louder: "I love you, too."
****
He died three days later of a stroke, caused by extended drug use.
He was eighteen years old.
He was my ex-boyfriend.
Seemed the nightmares were occurring more frequently since he'd stopped the drugs, the alcohol, the partying. Was that a blessing or a curse? he wondered, rubbing his eyes, as he sat up in the cot he'd designated as his. He checked his phone, hidden securely underneath his body to prevent it from being stolen: no message from her. No messages from anyone. Two AM.
He usually took a nap after work, though it always meant he couldn't sleep at night. But it was the only thing that kept him going, these snatches of blissful oblivion.
At least until his brother's screams got into his mind again, pervaded his dreams, turned those into nightmares.
He stretched a little, extending his arms above his head, then scrambled underneath the cot for the bottle of medication he had been given by the owners of the shelter. Depression pills used to regulate his moods. He dry-swallowed three.
His head was hurting. He texted her: "Hey."
Less than a minute later, the phone buzzed and her name showed on the screen. He smiled, and wondered if she automatically smiled upon seeing his name. He wondered what she had listed him as. Probably not "Babe," her nickname for him. He wondered if she'd called her ex-boyfriend that, too.
He wondered an awful lot about her, ever since he'd completely fucked things up between the two of them.
The drugs, he thought, and dragged his hand over his face. The drugs. They'd ruined him for her. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the anger, the absolute frigid fury that had turned into complete heartbroken shock.
"I could have loved you!" she'd screamed at him. It was the only time she'd ever truly lost control in front of him. He was the only one who could push her to that brink, something he had enjoyed doing.
She had had such faith in him, faith he'd taken total advantage of.
He had been so confident that she would never leave him. His ex hadn't, not after four years. He should have realized that eventually she would.
It'd happened. Now he loved her, and she didn't want him.
Funny how that worked.
She was supportive now, encouraging his dreams in that way she always had - he had never really paid attention to how much support she'd given him.
The long conversations, the laughter, the flirting, the kissing, the sex, the sharing of hopes and wishes. He had taken those for granted, and she was gone. She wouldn't be his anymore.
He thought back to the last time they'd hung out, only a few days ago. He had asked her to dance with him. She was so hesitant, but had let him put his hands on her waist -- she really didn't want him touching her. She had loved to have him touch her, and now it was as if the girl he had thought he'd figured out didn't exist anymore. And then she'd tripped over her own feet and brought him crashing to the ground with her. They'd ended up with his head in her lap, her hands combing through his hair, her lips brushing his forehead, his nose, his cheeks - but not his mouth.
She wouldn't even kiss him.
He wanted her desperately. He loved her desperately.
After he'd let loose his secret and shattered her into pieces and left her behind, he had kept tabs on her. He saw she had found someone else. She had never made her relationship with him public. Considering he'd constantly been in one fuck-up or another, he could understand her reasons. She was such an intensely private person, and she bore her pain silently.
"Do you want to dance?" he texted her.
"If I trip, you're coming down with me," came her reply.
"I'll catch you :)" he replied.
A few minutes went by, and his palms began to sweat. She'd never ignored one of his texts or messages. It was one of the things he loved about her: she was always there for him, even when life got in the way.
He could never be there for her. He'd disappointed her with that. He had ditched her so many times - usually to go light up, though he doubted she knew that was the reason.
He was clean now. Clean, sober, had sworn off the girls, was in therapy and had a steady job. His life was -- well, if it wasn't perfect, at least it was somewhat stable.
Finally his phone buzzed again: "Good luck doing that, kid :p"
He called her, pressing his phone to his ear as he dragged on shorts and a T-shirt. "Hey, it's me," he said.
"Hey, you," she said, and he could have sworn she was smiling. "What's up, Babe?"
Babe. He grinned. "Did I wake you up?"
“Nah," she said, then amended, "well, yeah." He heard her muffled yawn. "What do I owe this unexpected call to?"
"I, uh, was wondering if I could come over. I....had a bad dream."
"Oh, baby," she said, her voice softening. "I'll meet you outside."
He had to bribe his friend to drive him, but a half hour later he was at her house, walking towards her. She was wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a baggy shirt that revealed one shoulder gleaming in the moonlight. Her hair was tied up, as always, although he remembered tugging the band from it and tangling his fingers in the long silky strands....
"Hey," he said.
"You look exhausted....you haven't been sleeping," she said, by way of greeting.
He laughed. "Thanks, Lovely."
He saw her quick, pleased grin at his usage of the old nickname. She was still his Lovely.
"Same dream?" she asked.
He nodded; she held out her arms to envelop him in a tight hug, resting her head on his shoulder and smoothing her hands over his back in a comforting gesture. He gently slid one hand underneath her shirt, just to feel the warm skin, and she stiffened. He shrugged a little, then leaned forward and murmured in her ear: "Your skin is so soft."
She made a face at him, then stuck out her tongue. An old ritual. He returned the gesture; they smiled at each other. She pulled back, but allowed him to keep his hand on her lower back as they walked together through the field.
"Beautiful night," he said. Above them, the stars gleamed. He loved it out here, where she lived -- it was free, a wide expanse of space where they could hide and never be found if they wanted to. How many nights had they spent under the stars together, alternately making love, cuddling, and talking?
She sat on the grass, tugging him down with her. They sat Indian-style across from each other, holding hands. "What happened in the dream this time?" she said, leaning forward and pressing her mouth to his forehead in a brief, gentle kiss. It was her way of getting him to open up; it always worked. Just that gentle little touch of her lips on his skin. He let out a sigh.
"Just....memories," he said, looking at their intertwined hands. "All I see is him now. He's always there."
"Does he say anything?"
"I hear him scream," he said. "We're in the store, buying milk and bread for our parents. He picked up a Reese's Cup for his girlfriend, because chocolate was the only thing she could keep down."
Her brow furrowed. "She was -- "
"Mhm. I have a nephew. Aiden. I...can't keep in touch. It's too hard."
"I'm sure it must be." She ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead again.
"I like when you do that," he said.
"I know. It's comforting to both of us. Go on."
He let his thumb rub over her knuckles. "I-I remember them coming in. Two of them. He saw them first. He knew something was wrong. Maybe he saw the guns, I don't know -- " He nearly choked on the words as they poured out of him. It had been so long since he'd talked about this.
He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the tightness in his throat. "But I remember his shout: 'Get down, get down!' It was over so fast. The shots. Pow, pow, pow. He jumped in front of me. I wouldn't go down. I didn't listen to him -- " He closed his eyes.
His brother's scream as the bullets tore through him. Could there ever have been a worse sound than that cry of pain and fear? The weight of his twin's body as he collapsed. The smell of the blood: acrid, tangy, coppery. The feel of it, soaking through his new shoes. A birthday gift. Pristine white Air Jordans, now ruined.
That dark scarlet splashing on his body as he dragged his twin into his arms, holding him, trying to staunch the flow. He'd stripped off his shirt, holding it to the wounds as his tears mixed with the blood.
Praying. Don't take him. Don't take him. Don't take him, God, please.
Crying. No, no, no, no.
Pleading. Stay alive, bro. Stay for me. I can't make it without you.
His brother’s voice, fading. Take…care…of…baby.
He was jolted out of the memory by the feel of her lips tracing the tears as they spilled down his face. He allowed himself to be drawn into her lap, looking up at her and the stars. In the dim light, her blue eyes glowed as she shook her hair loose from its hair-band, letting the blonde locks spill over them: a curtain for privacy. He reached up, ran his fingers through it, enjoyed the scent of her perfume mixed with the apple conditioner she used. Her hair was still damp from her morning shower, even though it was now three in the morning.
"Thick-hair problems," he said, giving a chunk of her hair a light tug.
"Says the boy who buzzed most of his off," she said, one corner of her mouth turning up - her special little half-smile. "I might dye it blue."
"Along with getting your nose pierced," he teased.
"That will happen," she protested.
"You'll need me to hold your hand, you big baby."
She caught his hands in hers, tangling their fingers together, bringing them to her mouth for a kiss. They lay there in silence for a moment, until he said:
"You're the only one who can make me feel okay. Even talking about....this. Him."
"What was he like?" she said, at almost the same time.
"Sexy, like me." He grinned.
"No, really," she said, giving his chin a flick with her finger.
"Ow! Ow, fine. He was my better half," he murmured. "Always looked out for me, you know? He was the good twin. He kept me out of trouble. I wanted to be....like him, you know? We were the same age, and I looked up to him. He always felt older than me."
"An old soul," she said, smiling a little. "They say that about twins, sometimes. They have this bond that can't be broken. Kind of like the idea that your soulmate is your better half, the part that makes you feel whole. I wonder if that's where the idea came from, from twins."
"It makes sense," he said, amazed at her ability to always put his thoughts into words. How did she do it?
"All those jokes we made about good twin, bad twin....never thought they'd be true," she mused. "A rebellious little shit even back then, huh?"
"Who, me?" he cracked.
She leaned down, caught his lower lip between her teeth, gave it a little nip. The blood rushed from his head straight to his groin; he swallowed audibly. "Don't do that to me," he said. "You'll drive me insane."
"Like you did?" she said, her tone light and teasing. "Many times, I might add. Dick."
"You loved it, Baby."
She pulled his shirt up, drawing designs on the bare skin of his stomach. He shivered as her fingers brushed over the long knotted scar that stretched from his rib cage to his side. "This was from that day, wasn't it?" she asked.
He nodded. "Got a bullet in me somewhere, too."
"You sound so damn proud." Again her fingers were moving, tracing the waistband of his shorts.
"Lovely..." Just that simple touch had him gritting his teeth to hold back the urge to kiss her - and more. She was such a simple but deadly force, knew how to arouse him in ways no other girl could.
"Sorry!" She jerked her hand back, but he saw her self-satisfied smirk and knew she wasn't truly apologetic.
"Uh-uh," he said, and pulled her on top of him, tickling her. She let out a shriek that could have woken the dead.
"Noooooooooo!" she said, giggling. "Stoooooooop."
"Beg for mercy." He flipped her over so that he was on top, pinning her down. "I'll make you beg," he whispered in her ear.
"It should not be this easy for you to keep me on the ground." She scowled. "Let me up."
"Or what?" He was straddling her now, his knees on either side of her, and the friction intensified. He lowered his mouth to her throat and felt the pulse jumping there. "What's the matter, baby...you scared?"
She tilted her head to one side, allowing him access to her neck. "You kill me."
"You love me," he said.
"Do I?"
"Eight months, Lovely. Can't forget all that."
"Why not? You did. Over and over."
He looked into her eyes and saw the mixed emotions: the lust, the anger, the hurt, the love.
He loved her. She loved him.
They both knew it.
"One more chance. Please," he said. "I promise...I'll make it work. My life is a mess, it's fucked up. But I'll make it work for you. Para siempre." He released her wrists but leaned over her, watching her expressions. She toyed with the cross he had worn around his neck since his twin had been killed. His twin's cross. He had never taken it off.
Until now.
He reached behind him and undid the clasp, allowing the necklace to slip off. It felt as though a weight had been lifted as the past slid from his neck onto hers. "Will you wear this?"
"I-I-I can't," she said. "Oh, Babe, I can't. It's yours."
"I'm yours," he said, his throat tightening. "I'm yours, okay? I know I fucked everything up, but I realized after we split that I was in love with you. Am in love with you. I'm yours."
She turned so that her back was to him. "Can you fasten it for me?"
His hands were shaking as much as her voice as he gently secured the clasp.
The cross had witnessed so much of his life. Every mistake, every triumph he had ever made was embedded in it. The suicide attempts, the scars that covered his body -- the cross had seen it all. Hanging from her neck, the cross fell just below her throat. It wasn't a pretty piece of jewelry, no; but it looked somehow right on her. He moved her so that she was against his chest, his head tucked in to her shoulder, his arms around her waist.
He wondered if she could feel how much his heart was pounding against his chest. "I love you," he said.
"I love you," she said quietly, and then louder: "I love you, too."
****
He died three days later of a stroke, caused by extended drug use.
He was eighteen years old.
He was my ex-boyfriend.
About the Author
My name is Hannah Lovejoy and I am junior here at Cal majoring in journalism. My fun fact is I was born on Thanksgiving and receive a pumpkin pie as my birthday cake every year.