Chapter 20 #2
Heat settles low in my gut as Dylan presses up alongside my back. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you relax.”
Dylan’s arms snake around my torso. Fire dances across my skin as his hands glide down my chest. They hover around my belly button, and for an instant, I think they’re about to drift lower still. A breath huffs out of me, my tensed muscles relaxing slightly when his hands instead settle in place.
“There,” Dylan says, his voice slightly breathless. “Is that better?”
“Much.”
His soothing warmth envelops me, making me feel safe and protected. Making me feel loved, even if we haven’t said the word to each other yet. With Dylan here, I can actually believe everything will be all right.
Wrapped up in his arms, I hardly even notice when I drift peacefully off to sleep. One moment, I’m lying in my bed, relishing my boyfriend’s touch. The next, I’m floating amid a vortex of swirling color.
Striated lines of reds and blues and violets all bleed together into a dark whirlpool. Half-glimpsed images rise and fall amid the churning multihued waves, each a vague suggestion of reality.
The oak tree outside Banton High.
My old room at the Ellingtons’.
My mom’s slackened face.
A tremor racks me as the colored waves darken and thrash like a growing storm about to break. I scramble to maintain control over the nascent dreamscape, to recenter my emotions, but I can feel the power slipping through my fingers. Terror squeezes my throat.
This is how it happens—how I trapped Harvey within a nightmare. How I ruined Dad’s final days. How I drove Mom to take her own life.
As if from a great distance, I hear a faint voice echoing through the dreamscape. It’s too faded to discern any words, but I recognize the familiar comforting presence all the same.
Dylan’s right here by my side, just like he promised.
The knowledge gives me something to hold onto, anchoring my reality so I don’t drift away. Gradually, the swirling colors regain their former calm, the dreamscape once more solidly under my control.
This is a realm of infinite possibility—the nascent subconscious muck from which dreams emerge. I can sense them waiting out there, a legion of half-formed possibilities. With a focused act of will, I could breathe life into any one of them and create an ephemeral new world.
The notion is equal parts wondrous and terrifying.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I find myself excited by the potential my power offers, seeing it the way Dylan had.
Then, I recall all the harm it’s caused, the lives it has ruined.
The dreamscape trembles again before I manage to recenter myself.
I am not here to play God or to enjoy myself.
I came here with one purpose in mind: to find and help Greta.
Now, if only I had any idea how the fuck to do that.
Tentatively, I reach out my hand, prodding at the shifting sea of color. Shades of blue stick to my hand like paint, dripping from my fingers in great, messy blotches. A faded memory drifts back to me of painting with these colors—of imagining them into magical wonderlands for me and my parents.
Once upon a time, I’d exerted control over this sea of dreams as easily as breathing.
Closing my eyes, I picture Greta, my vision of her flickering between the healthy girl I remember from school and the broken shell of her I’d seen in the hospital. Acting on instinct, I try to extend my mind out to her, linking my thoughts with her own.
Nothing happens. No matter how hard I strain, the swirling colors remain unchanged. Perhaps she doesn’t dream after all. Or perhaps we simply don’t have a strong enough connection.
Even as a kid, I’d never attempted to link my dreams with anyone except my parents, and more recently, I’d done it only with Harvey and Dylan who’d both been in the same room as me. Visiting Greta in her dreams from here might simply be beyond my abilities.
How did you used to connect with Mom and Dad?
It’s a good question. I’ve spent so many years attempting to suppress those memories that it’s difficult for me to draw them to the surface. Sometimes, I’d drift asleep and find myself right away within one of their dreams. Other times, however, it took more work. I remember reaching out and…
Reliving the vague memory, I dip my hand into the swirling colors once more, scooping up a blotch of oranges and yellows. Rather than letting the colors drop, however, I imbue them with meaning, feeding them my vision of Greta.
The oranges and yellows coalesce, thickening and expanding outward until they form a hole of inky blackness amid the broader whirlpool. I reach out a trembling hand and brush my fingertips against the darkness. Its surface is smooth and soft as velvet.
In the blink of an eye, the dreamscape vanishes, replaced by an unfamiliar hilltop beneath a bright blue sky. Long grass waves in a gentle breeze. Trees stretch below in a sea of green, broken only by a thin trail. Rolling mountains loom in the distance, shrouded in mist.
It’s easily the most spectacular view I’ve ever seen.
A solitary figure stands staring out over the sprawling vista. Grass swishes underfoot as I approach her, halting at her side. I swallow the lump in my throat, keeping my gaze straight ahead.
“Hello, Greta,” I say.
She doesn’t reply. Marshalling my courage, I glance over. Her face appears peaceful, her blue eyes gleaming while a serene smile graces her lips. Still, a surge of disappointment engulfs me. There’s no hint of recognition on her face, no sign she even heard me.
Forcing back my despair, I try again. “It’s me. Ash. Do you…do you know where you are?”
Still no response. She simply continues to stare out over the sweeping vista.
My heart sinks as I face back forward. “It’s beautiful here.” I wonder fleetingly where here is—if this is someplace Greta actually visited in real life or just a pleasant dream her slumbering brain had conjured.
I trace the treeline with my eyes, noticing only then the hints of red and yellow mixed in with the green as the leaves prepare to change. Had that detail been there before, or had my own impressions influenced it without me even realizing it?
I clench my jaw, an awful helplessness gripping me.
I’m so far out of my depth here that I’m not even sure where to begin.
Do I dare risk altering Greta’s dream? That had been my original plan to help her wake up, but I’d also assumed I’d be able to talk to her first. What if changing too much against her will only sends her retreating deeper into her coma?
Dylan’s previous words echo back to me, and I steady myself. After all this effort to reach her, I’ve got to at least try to help. I focus on the dreamscape, attempting to alter it or seize control. The beautiful vista wavers like the rippling surface of a pond before steadying.
I scour the landscape for any changes. Greta herself appears exactly the same, unaffected by my efforts. I squint at the jagged mountains on the horizon. Had they always been so tall?
Gritting my teeth, I try again and again, but my power can’t seem to find anything to grasp onto. Or perhaps you’re just utterly inept at wielding it. No matter my efforts or how hard I focus, it remains the same unchanging scene.
I’m not sure how long passes before I finally give up, panting from the exertion as pain spikes through my skull. This might all be a dream, but that doesn’t make the mental energy I’ve expended any less real.
“I’m not sure what to do,” I say, staring down at the swaying grass. “I thought if I found you, the solution would come to me. But I’m more confused than ever.”
The light breeze carries my words away as I turn to face Greta. Her smile that had seemed so serene when I first found her now strikes me as lifeless as a wax sculpture. Like there’s nothing left but an empty husk of the person she used to be. Perhaps that’s the truth. Still, I force the words out.
“I…I’m sorry. For being such an asshole to you. For…for being such a lousy friend. I just wish I knew how to help you. God, it isn’t fair!”
That last bit turns into a scream, laced with all my helpless frustration. My eyes widen when the world around me wavers. Greta stumbles, and without thinking, I reach out, catching her. She grips my arm to keep her balance.
Shock fills me as she slowly tilts her head to regard me. “G-Greta?” I whisper, my voice wavering.
Her smile widens a fraction of an inch while a single tear glides down her cheek. I watch numbly as she straightens, resuming her former position. The dream stabilizes, its trembling subsiding. All is exactly as it was—all except for the wet trail glistening on Greta’s cheek.
Resolve firms my gut. So, her dream isn’t quite so immutable after all. It simply requires the right touch…along with an appropriate amount of force. At the moment, I may lack the strength to meaningfully alter it. But that doesn’t mean I always will.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I say to Greta. “But if you can, I swear that I’ll come back for you. I won’t leave you here to suffer alone.”
Closing my eyes, I gather my power about myself like a shroud and will myself to wake. Just like that, I blink and discover I’m back in my bed, Dylan a comforting weight against my back.
He must notice a shift in my breathing because he asks, “Ash? Are you awake? What happened?”
“I’m here,” I reply. I bite my bottom lip, hesitating before I add, “I found her.”
I feel him tense against me. “And? How’d it go?”
“I failed. I wasn’t strong enough.” Shifting, I turn over to face him. I link my arms behind his back and rest my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent as determination grips me. “But I will be.”