The Things She Dreams
No, really.
I'm working on another story. Yes, another one. Not The Four Demons of Ganpai, or The Exiled, or the Monsters of Babylon. Though none of those are abandoned, thank you very much. Just on hold. (I put more things on hold than the worst of radio stations, but with far better music and less frequent "your call is important to us" messages.)
This happens to be a story that came to me about seven years ago, and it happened to be so completely eye-gougingly aweful that I abandoned it until a couple of weeks ago.
And suddenly I got inspired to try my hand at it again. And apparently 18-year-old me can do a whole lot of things that 12-year-old me couldn't do worth squat. Go figure.
So here's another try. I happen to think it's semidecent... especially since I still remember some of the original drafts (shudder). You can read it, if you are so inclined. And don't worry, she doesn't stay emo for more than a few chapters.
Day 1 52 55 49 31
They gave me this book and told me to write down the things I dream.
But I don’t understand everything I dream about, so I don’t remember half of it. Akere-that’s who he is to me, not Lord Akere or Master or anything-got angry with me, but eventually he told me to write down what I do remember.
So I will. Just following orders, Akere.
I remember waking up to shouting and yelling. I could hear the sound of swords being drawn, and then a scream, and then a hollow thump. Always in that order. And then another sound-high and keening, something between a roar and a hiss, an animal cry-that sent chills down my spine. I remember it was dark, and I just huddled in my bed, pulling the sheets over my head for safety. Because it was a dream-it had to be a dream. But it wasn’t. In my dreams I can see clearly, even when it’s dark. And she-the woman I always see in my dreams-she would never just sit back and cower. She’d get up and fight.
Maybe I was just being stupid. I think I wanted to be like her, because maybe if things happened the way they did in my dreams, it would turn into one of them, and then I would wake up and be safe again. And I wanted to be like her, because she’s braver and smarter and stronger and all the things that would be important in a time when people are in danger. So I got up and got dressed, just like her. And I picked up my little steel-tipped pen, because it was the only thing I could think of that could possibly be mistaken for a weapon. Honestly, I didn’t even know what to do with it. I mean, I’d seen fighting in my dreams before, but always with swords and bows, or with fangs and claws, or with sheer brute force. I had none of those. I still don’t. I just had a little pen with a steel nub, and I thought I was going to make a difference, just like she would.
Yes, Akere, I was an idiot. And I know you’re going to read this eventually, so you can stop laughing already. I’ve heard you laugh before, and I’ve seen you smile, even though you do neither around me. Around me you’re always cold and cruel and bitter. And you already know that you frighten me, but not as much because you could hurt me as the other reason, because I know how you used to be. I’ve heard you laugh, and I’ve seen you smile. And it would be creepy-irreverent-to see you do either of those anymore.
If you’re finished laughing yet, I got on my shoes-which was stupid, I know, but the floor was cold and I didn’t want to be startled out of my dream-and I sneaked-or is it snuck? I can’t remember-to the door as quietly as I could. But just then the door burst open, and somebody dove in and grabbed me and clapped his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. I think I was about to faint, but I stabbed him with my pen instead. Granted, I’m not very strong, and I was startled so I couldn’t aim properly, and it was just a pen so it couldn’t have done all that damage, but that was all probably for the best, because it wasn’t the enemy after all.
It was Riss. And he really didn’t appreciate my pen being in his arm. But he didn’t yell-I would have, it looked like it really hurt-he just pulled the stupid make-believe weapon out and closed the door behind him.
“Aren,” he hissed, and I’m not sure if it was because of the pain or because he was angry with me, or just because it was dangerous outside and he didn’t want to be heard. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to help,” I said, and yes, at that time I started to figure out that I sounded like an idiot.
“No,” he said sternly, and then he stepped around so that he stood between me and the door. I don’t think I realized until later that he was also standing between the door-and what was behind it-and me. And only then did he start talking again, but it was a lot nicer, like we used to talk to each other. “Aren, you’ll be helping them so much more if you just stay here and don’t let anyone see you.” But it took him much longer to say than it’s taking you to read, because I kept interrupting him and asking why. He lowered his voice even more, and it sounded a little like he was trying to soothe a frightened horse. I let him walk me to the far side of my bed-but not before I grabbed a handkerchief off my table-and sit me down in the little corner between the mattress and the wall, so nobody could see me from the door. He told me to speak in nothing louder than a whisper, and if anything happened, if anyone opened the door, to hide underneath the bed and not even breathe.
I know that this doesn’t make sense to you-or if you think it does, you’re wrong. Because Riss isn’t a guard; he’s just a servant. He’s the one who taught me how to read and write, and who told me about all the rules that came with living in the castle, and he was patient when I didn’t understand or I said that something sounded completely ridiculous (which it probably was). He shouldn’t even have been out that night. He could have stayed in the servants’ quarters and been perfectly safe and out of harm’s way, and never even have gotten stabbed by my pen or hurt by Vespurn’s men. Maybe I would even know for sure if he was still alive. He was brave to come for me, and he was clever to realize that I wouldn’t have stayed put without him.
Before I go on, I’m warning you, Akere: don’t you dare laugh at Riss. Don’t you make fun of him. I know I can’t do much, but I swear if you start mocking him, I’ll… I’ll stab you with my sewing needle, or I’ll stamp your foot, or I’ll tear up your bedsheets. I know you’ll probably hit me, but do you know what? It’ll be worth it. Because getting hit is a lot better than letting you ridicule him, and I’ll keep doing it until you stop. I’ll write it again in blood if I have to-remember, I can use a pen as a weapon.
In fact, don’t even read this in front of me. I don’t know if you’ll laugh, but you might, and I don’t want to hear it. And I don’t want to see you smile or go ‘hmmm’ and wonder what it is you just read, either. If you must read it (and I know you will) then you’d better do it someplace that I’m not, because I’ll yell and scream and clap my hands and stomp my feet and make such a ruckus that you won’t be able to concentrate enough to read.
Aren’t you glad I can write? I am. I know that if I tried to say any of this aloud, you’d have me black and blue before I finished a sentence. But on Vespurn’s orders you can’t stop me from writing, and as long as I write you can’t stop me from saying whatever it is I mean to say. Not even if I’m threatening you with sewing needles. And yes, there’s a smile on my face right now, and yes, it’s rather smug. Because if you try to take this book away and make me just talk, then you’ll be too busy hitting me to hear anything important anyway, and I’ll keep on saying things to make you angry, and you’ll keep on threatening and hitting me until I fall down dead, and then you’ll have lost. You and Vespurn and your fortress and all your stupid minions.