Nysa Pygar // d3 // fin
Mar 2, 2018 13:20:56 GMT -5
Post by flyss on Mar 2, 2018 13:20:56 GMT -5
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N Y S A P Y G A R
D I S T R I C T 3
Red. The color of blood. The color of roses. The color of death. It floods my vision in waves when I close my eyes, head tilted toward the sun with a hope that when I try to see again, all I'll get is black. Instead, there's images of children running on the side of swampy roads, fingers held out from their bodies to feel the wind as it rushes by. Their hair is glued to their foreheads by sweat; murder is crusted in the beds of their nails. To an outsider, they'd seem happy- and some of them are- but there's a certain fear that lines their bodies like a second skin. I feel like I've been just like them at some point: terrified, unable to stay still, desperate.
I imagine myself in their shoes, legs moving at the speed of light. There's a metallic taste in my mouth and I can feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes from the adrenaline. A sense of urgency in every step, heart pounding like an animal against my rib cage. It's freedom embodied, I think, and though nothing is chasing me, I know that I have to keep moving. My lungs scream in protest, their attempts to get enough air coming up dry, but I know that feeling, too. Suffocation. The ultimate suffering. All of a sudden, I stop. My feet screech to a halt, and the others that were running behind me quickly pull ahead.
Then it hits me.
The warmth starts in my core as a spark. It tickles, and if it weren't so paralyzingly familiar, I would have laughed. But it soon spreads, the growing pain inching its way up to my chest and down to my legs and out through my arms. It's like my entire body has been set ablaze, and all at once, the pain expands tenfold. Flames consume my entirety. I can feel my skin melting, invisible screams ripping through my chest as all of my energy struggles to escape from this man-made tomb. Red is the color of fire. But fire has always been a friend of mine, never an enemy.
When I open my eyes. I'm still lying in the grass outside. My vision colors itself in greens and blues, the red from before having overwhelmed my eyes enough to block out the harsh colors temporarily. I check my body to make sure that it's still there- something I've felt the need to do ever since I started getting these day dreams- and just like every time before, nothing is different. As I bring myself to a stand, I wipe all of the fall debris off of my shirt and pants and make my way back to the porch.
"Nysa dear," my mother calls, grey hair covering her eyes as she peeps her head out of the front door, "won't you come on inside. Supper is almost ready." By the time she's finished speaking, I'm already there. She seems shocked, as if she weren't expecting me to move so fast, but I can't really blame her. Most days, I stay outside for so long that the only way they can bring me home is by dragging me back. It takes both my older brother and my father to do it, and sometimes, they're so tired that they don't even bother.
On the days I get these dreams, though, I'm always back to the house before the sun sets. Nightmares, I'd call them, if they didn't happen when the sun was still out, and they always start off sweet before escalating to something much more sour. Spending the night in an elevator, watching an older woman shoot herself, helping a young boy break into a store, riding in a train so fast that that the colors outside blend together.... I've never experienced any of it, yet it always seems so real. Details blur with reality to the point that I feel the emotions of the people I'm with. Happiness, confidence, love... sorrow, anger, frustration... fear, pain, longing... it's always something different, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
There's this one boy, though. While everything else is in a solemn, colorless blur, he's vibrant and packed with detail. Cheekbones to kill, light brown hair that comes down just above his brows... I know it's a face that I should remember, even if I can't. None of the other people in my dreams, no matter how often they show up or how close they seem to be to me, I find to be this enthralling. And still, I'm left with fragments- a puzzle that's missing far more pieces than it has. Time and time again, I'm presented with detail beyond my imagination, moments that feel so tender and real that they transcend the word 'dream', but when my focus returns, I can only ever recall that the detail was there, not what the detail was. I get so sick from my gut telling me that he's important, showing me that he's important, but not letting me remember why he's important.
I don't even think I'd be able to pick out his face in a measly crowd of 10.
After the initial shock passes, my mom places a hand on my shoulder and ushers me to where the others sit in wait. A modest but delicious-looking meal consisting of chicken and peas is packed onto 5 plates; all eyes are on me when I sink into my seat, as if I'm the only thing between them and their food. When I'm comfortable, we all dig in. It's nice to have a full table, I think, even if it never feels full enough. I spend most of dinner watching my brother and sister eat, and I do my best to hold in my laughs when they get caught feeding some of their vegetables to the dog.
Once everyone has finished, my mother rounds up the plates and dismisses us for the evening. My siblings run off before she's even finished speaking, probably heading back to some game they'd been playing in the other room, and my father waits politely for a kiss and a hug before noting that he's going back to the factory for his nighttime shift. It quickly becomes quiet in the Pygar residence, and after a reasonable amount of time has passed, I get up and walk over to the sink to help wash dishes.
Mom doesn't say anything when I appear by her side, but she does smile warmly, handing me a towel so I can dry the things she sets in the rack. I usually find myself here when I bother to show, but it doesn't feel much like a chore. It's my mom who I'm closest to, anyways, and it's almost fitting that I have more of her features than I do Dad's. We share the same soft, brown eyes and the same rough, angled brows. Our lips even curve in the same spots, and our smiles are perfect copies, lips pink and stuck in a perpetual pout. If it weren't for her whole "I love you all equally" rule, I think that I'd be her favorite by a mile.
My dad is completely different, with hard, coal eyes and blonde eye brows that feather out at the tips. He doesn't smile often, but when he does, it's a toothy, childish grin, much like that of my brother and sister. I'd like to think that if he weren't raised the way he was, that he'd be goofy and light-hearted instead of his solitary, work-driven self. Of course, that attitude is what keeps us living somewhat comfortably, but it'd be nice to have him around more. It could be worse, though, and I remind myself daily to be thankful that I even have him at all.
When all the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away, Mom gives me a kiss on the head and tells me to go have fun. By now, dusk has already begun to bleed into the corners of once-blue sky, and the clouds are obscured by shades of rose and blush and goldenrod. I make my way to my room hesitantly, afraid that if I take too long that it'll all change to something else, but I'm greeted by the same view from my window when I arrive. I enjoy the melt of the sunset behind a sea of broken cogs and screws, and my hands absentmindedly fiddle with a couple of tools as I watch the shades fade from a pink, to a red, to a brown, to the navy blue of night. I turn on my desk lamp when I'm sure that nothing more will happen, and I fight back the urge to cough as I look over the half-finished projects that litter my desk.
There's nothing too extravagant, just a couple of watches and scraps that my dad had brought home over the last couple of years. It's always given me something to do, even if I've never had the talent to ever make something out of it. I clear a space in the middle with my forearm and tug open one of the drawers to reveal a couple of notebooks, some matches, a bundle of pens. I grab one of each, except for the matches, and set them down gently, opening the journal up to a random page somewhere in the middle. When I see that it's already been covered in lines of words and semi-messy doodles, I flip to the next page. Then the next. And the next. And the next. I quickly come to the conclusion that this one's been all marked up, so I toss it towards my bed and pull out another. This one is fresh, with only a single ink stain marring the perfection of the cover, and I make sure to crease the binding before opening it all the way so it don't crack as much down the road. I scribble a couple of circles in the top left corner to make sure that I have ink before I begin to write.
Swamp. Kids. Fire.
I draw the scene from today's daydream off to the side as best as I can from memory. Just like every other day, it looks nothing like what I'd actually seen, but it's as good as I can get from whatever I can manage to remember.
I'm on fire. It burns. I can hear the boy's voice in my head. Who is that boy? Who is he? Who is he who is he who is he who is he who is he who who who why can't I remember WHO IS HE? WHY?
I throw my pen across the room in frustration and place my hands on my forehead as I study the lines with every ounce of concentration I can muster. When nothing comes forth, I slam the notebook shut before standing up, sliding off my shorts, and flinging myself onto the edge of my bed. I hadn't seen him this time, but I know I heard his voice. I try not to think of it as I grab my crumpled comforter from the edge of my bed, throwing it up over my body just enough to cover everything but my head. I'd try to get some sleep, but the thoughts would just haunt me there, too. Dreams are dreams. But a part of me longs to be back there for only a moment, just in case this time was different. Just in case this time I'd remember something.
I know I shouldn't be hopeful, though, so I shake the thought out of my head and try to force my attention onto something else. The math lesson from Friday was pretty interesting. The girl who sits three seats to my left asked if I wanted to meet up after school to share answers, but I told her I was busy. I wasn't busy, I just didn't want to go anywhere. I wanted to be back at home, lying in the grass. I wanted to be dreaming-
Before I know it, I'm right back at square one. I'll try again tomorrow, I reason, and I close my eyes again, this time in submission. I know that I won't keep my promise, though- I never do. I'll always allow myself the vice of sleep no matter how hard I try not to, because a part of me can't stand to lose the sensations and feelings that I only seem to have in my slumber. It's what I fear most, and yet, I find myself clung to the very center of it all. I'm my own worst enemy.
When the dream forms this time, I'm up somewhere high, looking down on what seems like a million lights scattered across the baited breath of a city. It's beautiful- dreaming at night is always more luxurious than dreaming during the day- and I try my best not to stumble as I make my way to the edge. I'm overcome with confidence, the urge of arrogance pressing hard against my calm front, but I don't feel like interrupting the moment. I don't care to look when I realise that I'm not alone, either.
I can hear foot-steps growing louder, and the previously smooth scene seems to crackle, as if pieces that weren't meant to merge had been sewn together by the plasticity of my mind. I feel a hand on my shoulder, then two, and I sink into the feeling as much as I can without letting go entirely. I'm content, and the buzz of the night cradles me as if to say that it was okay. That nothing could go wrong if I just gave in. I don't want to lose control, though. I want to remember how this feels for the rest of eternity, to have it for the rest of eternity. But the person behind me speaks, and I'm torn.
"I'm afraid of heights."
That isn't how the dream should have gone, and I know it. But instead of pulling myself out before anything else can happen, I listen to the night and submit. When I finally cave and turn around, I remember everything: every glance, every kiss, his name, my name, where we are, where we're going, why I feel like this. And it's like dying all over again when I realise that I'll just forget it all. Every time, every memory... forgotten, because I'm not who I used to be.
I never lived up to what I was meant to be.
So I just relax into the numbness, allowing myself whatever comfort I can get, because I know now that it's too late to change any of it. Thought to be stone, turned out to be glass. Now I'm just sand, trapped in a timer, waiting to be flipped upside down and reset.
