Around the corner, the sofa blocks half of the TV screen from Skylar’s view. She can hear an episode of Murder, She Wrote despite the lowered volume. Part of a pillow hangs over the sofa arm, a head of dark hair rests on it.
“Mommy?”
“What,” a deep, gravelly voice answers.
Skylar grips the sides of her white nightie. This isn’t Mommy. That voice belongs to someone else, someone big. It’s enough for Skylar to know for a fact that she isn’t awake at all.
This is another nightmare.
She’s had moments like this before, realizing that she’s dreaming while still asleep. Usually she’s able to take control and start flying, turning trees into pixie stick candy, or taming rhinos. None of these options cross her mind. All she can think about is that whoever’s on the couch is a terrifying monster. If she sees them, she’ll be frightened more than she already is. She mustn’t look. No matter what happens, she mustn’t look at them.
“I had a bad dream,” she whispers.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Skylar swallows. She should walk away, go back to her room and wait for this dream to end, but her feet won’t move. “Can I have some cocoa?”
“Can you?”
“May I?”
The person stirs. Skylar forces her eyes down. Don’t look.
Large sneakers approach her with cracked claws poking through. She fears for a moment that they will stop in front of her, but they move past her instead. The kitchen light turns on, shining a yellow glow on the floor and her bare feet. There are no shadows. Skylar hears the kettle boiling, a mug clatter on the counter, water pouring, and a spoon scraping as it stirs.
A cough dislodges some phlegm. “Come on. Sit down.”
Skylar walks to the white kitchen table and sits in a chair. Her feet dangle several inches above the gray linoleum. She keeps her chin down. A hand holds a mug out to her. Gray skin folds in creases over the joints and there’s a hairy wart. The fingernails are painted a moody shade of purple. Mommy wears blue nail polish, like morning glory flowers. Skylar hopes to wake up soon and be comforted by her warm caresses and gentle fingers running through her hair.
She takes the mug with both hands, noticing a sleeping snow leopard on the side. “Thank you.” She counts five mini marshmallows bobbing in the froth.
The stranger clears their throat while settling into a chair across from her. “So, what was the dream about?”
Skylar didn’t expect to chat, but she feels there’ll be consequences if she doesn’t comply. She thinks of the previous nightmare.
“Monsters,” she croaks.
“What sort of monsters?”
“Scary ones, with big bug eyes and sharp teeth.”
“What happened?”
Skylar shivers.
“Well?” The voice urges. “Were you being chased?”
“No.”
“Held prisoner?”
“No.” Skylar squints at a marshmallow. “They were controlling me.”
“How?”
“They were telling me what to do, what to eat, when to go to the bathroom, everything, and I had to do it.” Skylar cringes. “They made me touch a cockroach.”
“Wasn’t there someone to help you?”
“No, the monsters took them away.”
“Took who away?”
Skylar’s voice catches. “Mommy and Daddy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She tries a sip of cocoa and winces. Bubbles pop as it starts boiling.
“Why?” the stranger repeats.
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
Skylar slams her mug on the table. Nothing spills. “Because they’re mean! They’re mean, awful monsters that take people away and leave you all alone!” Tears roll from her eyes and shatter on the table.
“They don’t care if you cry and beg, they never bring them back. Ever.”
She rubs her eyes. The monster in this dream is mean, too. Why do they keep asking questions? Why don’t they go away and let her wake up to go find Mommy? Her cocoa continues gurgling.
The stranger’s voice changes to a raspy woman’s. “You dumbass. A car crash killed them, not monsters.”
Skylar gasps. She forgets her rule and looks up. The monster’s gone. In their place is Barbara Jean, her adoptive mother, lounging in her chair. Wearing a baggy t-shirt with a magenta shark on it, her hollow cheeks sink further into her teeth as she inhales a cigarette. A gray haze swirls over her head.
Skylar clenches her fists. “Get out!”
Barbara Jean laughs. She blows smoke in Skylar’s face, making her cough. “Stop crying. You don’t live here anymore.”
Skylar can see that. Empty beer cans and wine bottles clutter the kitchen counter. Coupons for fast food and grocery deals are taped to the refrigerator. A light flickers periodically. But the table is the same, pristine and white with matching chairs, the same one from her childhood home. Skylar strokes the paint, relishing its smoothness.
“I miss them,” she whispers.
“That don’t make dead people come back.” Barbara Jean taps her cigarette over the table. Ashes drop like powdered goose turds on the clean white. “Honestly, how stupid are you?”
“I’m not stupid!”
“You can’t even do simple algebra. Years of summer school and all you ever do is draw. God, how’d I end up with the dumbest kid in the system?”
Skylar now wears a floral dress with patches instead of her white nightie. Her toes brush the floor and feel something sticky. She recoils and rests her feet on a chair rung. Even though she’s bigger now, she feels small and insignificant with Barbara Jean here. She looks at the photos that appear on the refrigerator. Snapshots of trips to distance parks like Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon. All without Skylar in them.
Dora the Explorer plays on the TV behind her. Barbara Jean sneers, lines crease her face. “A retard who watches baby shows. When are you going to grow up and learn something useful?”
“I hate summer school. Those teachers suck. Those kids suck. Everybody sucks. I want to go camping.”
“Yeah, sure, but who wants to take a sniveling kid like you? Answer me that.”
Skylar scowls at the table. She hates this, feeling useless and helpless. Is there any way she can take control?
Yes, of course there is. She places her arm on the table palm-up, exposing a blue dragonfly tattoo with the words “Freeman Forever” on her wrist. She smiles. Now Barbara Jean will yell about its hideousness and how much she despises it. It’s a small moment of pleasure. Skylar waits expectantly.
A man speaks instead. “Aren’t you a bit young to get a tattoo?”
Oh no. Not this guy. Skylar retracts her arm. Why her high school hired Mr. Ackles as a counselor is beyond her comprehension. He should be using his slow, condescending speech on chimps instead of students. Wearing dark jeans and a teal shirt, Skylar leans back in her chair. Her shoes rest on gray carpet and her eyes follow the swirling motion of her cocoa. Better not look up. Seeing the man’s fat face will only piss her off. The snow leopard on the side of her mug snarls.
Skylar crosses her arms. “Sixteen-year-olds don’t need guardian consent to get a tattoo. It’s the one good thing about Florida. That and Disney World.”
“By ‘guardian,’ do you mean your mother?”
“She’s not my mother.”
“Interesting.”
Skylar hears him scribble in his notepad. Prick. He acts like a psychiatrist so he can gather dirt on everyone. She grinds her teeth.
“And what do the words ‘Freeman Forever’ mean to you?” he asks.
“Freeman’s my real name.”
“I think Lloyd’s a nice surname.”
“I wasn’t born with it.”
More scribbling. Skylar focuses on a nick on the edge of the table, telling herself repeatedly not to punch this guy in the face. She already has detention for throwing a book at him. A solid hit would mean suspension for sure, and she can’t deal with another rant from Barbara Jean.
The opening credits of Star Trek: The Next Generation play on the T.V. A blank sketchpad and pencil slide across the table to her. She snatches them up, opens the pad to a blank page, holds it to her face, and breathes deeply. It has a musty smell, but cleaner than a book, and it still holds a hint of bleach. She props a knee against the table and begins doodling two fleets of spaceships engaged in battle.
“Why do you like drawing?” Mr. Ackles asks.
“Keeps my hands busy.”
“You have a lot of energy, don’t you?”
Skylar snorts. “Are you kidding? I’m lazy. I can’t do P.E.” Her pencil pauses on the page. “Except archery. That’s fun.”
“But drawing focuses your mind, doesn’t it? Keeps it from running away.”
“No, I draw to get away.”
“From what?”
“Everything.” She continues sketching the battleships, adding turret guns and laser blasts. The image forms quicker than her hand can draw. “Life mostly. Things are more interesting in sci-fi and fantasy.”
“Ah, yes.” Skylar imagines Mr. Ackles nodding to himself, his double chin scrunching in the process. “The hyperactive, easily distracted mind unable to concentrate on the present moment. That’s why you’re being treated for ADHD.”
“Oh my God, not that again!” She slams down her pencil and glares at the counselor for the first time. His droopy eyes look at her with a calm that infuriates her. “I don’t have ADHD or ADD or any of that. I’m not distracted in class, I’m bored. Can’t you tell the difference? I don’t care about math and social sciences, so I draw abacuses. I don’t want to learn about chemistry and photosynthesis, but I like sketching test tubes and lichen. The only thing I get out of history is architecture, fashion, and technology. Everything you teach here is bullshit.”
Mr. Ackles shakes a finger at her. “Now now, we don’t use that language here.”
“Oh, fuck you in every language, and fuck your meds!” Skylar’s tongue fishes out a pill that appears inside her cheek. She spits it at him, grinning when it sticks to his neck like a tree frog. It pulses purple shades.
Mr. Ackles shakes his head with a sympathetic look. “Such a pity. Your behavior, this drawing obsession that pulls you from reality, it’s exactly why you wouldn’t do well in art school.”
“You’re wrong,” a robotic voice speaks behind Skylar.
She claps a hand over her mouth. It’s him. The stalker. She’s never met him, but she knows it’s him. Limbs shake. She gasps for breath. Please, not this again. Not the pictures catching her moments in the library, a campus hall, napping in Starbucks. The messages foretelling visits “on moonlight’s wing.” The mutilations he promised.
The theme from CSI: NY plays on the TV behind her. She doesn’t register the fact that the stalker shouldn’t be here with Mr. Ackles. He’s a college terror, nothing to do with high school, yet here he is. She doesn’t dare to turn around.
Mr. Ackles looks up past Skylar. The pill on his neck swells to the size of a tuna can. It beats like a misplaced heart.
“She lacks focus, commitment, and practical goals. Art school is no place for her.”
“What about this?”
An image projects onto the table showing a sketch of an alligator charging out of a swamp. Water spray radiates blue and green colors around its gaping mouth.
The stalker continues. “This won your school mascot competition. And this one got into a magazine.” The picture switches to a hovercraft at sea pulling in a fishing net. “Her drawings are gaining recognition and winning awards.”
The image changes to a lab full of clockwork toys semi-assembled and various glass beakers and funnels containing pale fluids or small fish. A girl wearing a leather apron and bronze goggles looks panicked as the vial she’s holding over a flame bubbles black goop.
“This one’s my favorite,” the stalker says. “‘Exam Day.’ The puffer fish looks so scared. And that student’s face. Ha. Ha. Ha.” The laugh sounds monotonous. Something rustles like large insect wings.
Skylar stares at her drawings while wearing her university sweatshirt. She’s confused about getting praise from a perverted freak, but she can’t help feeling pride in her creations. “Yeah, that’s right. Books need covers and illustrations. Movies need concept designs. Video games too. My work’s practical everywhere.”
Mr. Ackles flips through his notepad. “That’s all well and good, but you can’t spend all your time at the drawing board. There needs to be a work-life balance.”
“I’ve got that. I go camping. My book club meets twice a month. I have friends. We have bowling and movie nights.”
Mr. Ackles’ narrows his eyes at her. “But you’re leaving him.”
Skylar blinks. Her thoughts jump to Patrick, the man she met during college and continued dating after graduation. A robotic arm reaches from behind and holds a ring in front of her. The sparkling diamond hurts her eyes.
“This is a pretty stone he gave you,” the stalker says. “Elegant, but you want to call the whole thing off.”
“What? No. Well, maybe?”
Mr. Ackles shakes his head. He puts down his notepad with finality. “Like I said, no commitment.”
Skylar sags. Guilt coils into a hard ball in her stomach. She imagines it condensing into a rock. No, a diamond, black with unpolished edges. Her seat jerks backwards, reclining her like a dentist’s chair. She expects to finally see her stalker. Instead, she stares at the upside-down view of a giant robotic cockroach, its shell glinting indigo in the light. Appendages like mini legs on both sides of its mouth wiggle. Mandibles click. A small T.V. screen juts out from its forehead, still showing her Exam Day picture. Mr. Ackles rushes forward. He shoves his oily hands into her mouth at the same time the cockroach sticks in two smooth feet.
“The stone,” says Mr. Ackles. “Get the stone out!”
Skylar tastes sweat and dust as they widen her jaw and reach for the diamond in her gut. Her mouth is too full to scream. She feels sick. The puffer fish in the picture spins in circles. The student runs and bangs on the lab door. Her peripheral fades to white. She starts to remember that this is all a dream, just a dream. In a moment she’ll wake up and be free from the nausea and these horrible people. She waits as the white closes in on the center of her vision.
“Mom?”
Skylar blinks. Mr. Ackles and the cockroach are gone. She stares at a bare ceiling with her empty mouth gaping. Slowly, she closes her jaw and rights herself. The kitchen has returned to the original state of her childhood home. Clean. Well lit.
Guilt roils in her gut again, this time mixed with anxiety. She looks away. The snow leopard runs on the side of her mug.
“Why’re you afraid of me?” Winston asks.
She flinches. “No, honey, I’m not afraid of you. I’m just, worried.”
“Why?” She hears him tear up. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, God no!”
Quick, start a game, calm him down. She finds a pack of cards sitting on the side of the table. She grabs them and deals out seven. Winston wipes his nose on the back of his hand and picks up the cards, resting their edges on the tabletop. They play Go Fish.
“I swear, Winston, you’ve done
“Winston, what do you think of me?”
He looks up from his cards. “I like you. Got any threes?”
“Go fish.” She puts her cards on her lap. “But I’m marrying your dad! Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I don’t know my first mom. She’s gone.” Winston shuffles in his seat. “Ask me for a card.”
“Do you have any queens?” she asks without looking at her hand.
He pouts and hands over two. “Do you know where my first mom is?”
Skylar’s heart clenches. “I don’t know. She left before I met your dad. You were one then.”
“Why did she go?”
“She wasn’t ready for a family.”
“Will she come back?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Winston nods. “So, if you’re my new mom, will there be a new baby?”
“I don’t know.”
He looks down. “If there’s a new baby, will I have to go?”
“Winston, listen to me. You are not going anymore. If a baby comes along, it’ll be your little brother, or sister.”
“Oh, okay.” Winston looks back at his cards. “Do you have any jacks?”
Skylar hands over one. “Winston… do you really like me?”
“Ask me for a card!”
“Twos.”
“Go fish!”
She picks up a card from the pile. “Are you okay with me being your new mom?”
Winston nods without hesitation. It seems more like an automatic response than an answer.
“Are you sure?” she asks. “You’re okay with me moving in, becoming part of your family?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You won’t hate me?”
“No.” Winston smiles. “You give me ice cream.”
She laughs, but she doesn’t relax. Her thoughts flip between Barbara Jean and Mr. Ackles, the two people who made her feel unheard and insignificant. She shivers as the stalker comes to mind, the faceless menace who made it so hard for her to trust people, even Patrick. She gazes at Winston, terrified that he might feel any of these things because of her.
“Winston, I love you very much. You’re a wonderful little boy, and I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s something that makes you happy or sad. I promise to listen, and I will do everything I can to help you. Okay?”
“Okay.” Winston stands on his chair to take the cards from her hands. He stacks them with the rest of the deck and places them carefully on the table.
“Time to wake up.” He climbs down and walks down the hallway.
Skylar watches him go. Even though this is her childhood home, she knows that he’s going to his own room, and two doors down from that is Patrick’s room. No, their room. Hers and Patrick’s. She feels a piece of metal in her palm and looks down. Her engagement ring sits warmly in her hand. She picks it up in her fingers. The diamond’s sparkles don’t hurt her eyes this time. It shimmers rainbow slivers that reflect around her. One hits her mug. There’s still a little cocoa left in there, now cold. The snow leopard on the side yawns with its tongue curled.
Skylar puts the ring on her finger. Swallowing the remaining cocoa, she stands to turn off the TV.
Phineas obtained his MA in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of Winchester. He's a Moth StorySLAM winner and editor with Zig Zag Lit Mag. He writes primarily short stories and poetry. One of his poems, Fern Feather, was nominated for the 2023 Pushcart Prize. A Vermont resident, Phineas enjoys reading, cycling, hiking, playing harp, and meeting anyone’s pet.
