This is a 1 page excerpt from a story in my final portfolio for a fiction writing class. Full stories to come…
The morning had been what you want out of a morning: foggy windows. His long hair was on the pillow and I was waking from a dream that I already knew he didn’t want to hear about. This was the third time I woke up last night. I looked at his hair halo before thrashing around, signaling my nightmares and a need to be held.
“Tell me,” he said, rolling to face me.
“I’m in bed and I’m getting kicked, kicked hard, and she’s yelling.”
“Who’s kicking?” Crust in eyes; hair crumpled.
“I keep saying, like soft and mean, ‘kick the devil out of me, mom. Yea, kick the devil out of me.’”
I actually don’t think it was my mom in the dream. I don’t think I’m the one getting kicked. I’m the reporter watching the scene, watching the bed splinter but on the wrong side and the board game pieces spill out onto the floor from under the bed.
“You still there?” He had rolled back over and I held him from behind. His jet pack. We nestled in our sheets which smelled too much like us to wash now. His mouth opened and I wasn’t mad at the escaping snores. He started snoring that year we sold our washing machine. I think he knew I was staying.
It was actually the second time I woke up that I found the wings. They were just aching knolls on my shoulder blades, festering sores of breaking flesh and straining growth. I couldn’t reach them with my fingers but they burned against our sheets. I couldn’t remember which dream woke me up this time.