11. A Nightmare

Kim knew.

She found out that I had that dream again last night.

For the past ten years, ever since my father left me alone with my mother, I've been dreaming of him a lot. The truth is that he wasn't that good of a person until I dreamed of him after he left. These weren't dreams of missing him, but rather because even after he left, he didn't take our bad memories with him.

Dante wasn't a good father. He wasn't a good man. In fact, he wasn't even a good person. Every chance he got, he beat Mom, forced me to hide under the bed, smothered my own mouth, and listened to the noise and screams out there.

Every time he came home drunk, Mom (and I) wouldn't survive. The next morning I would find my mother's entire body covered in wounds. One day I saw blood pouring out of Mom's head, and on the floor was a broken liquor bottle. I cried hysterically, but Mom hugged me and told me not to wake my father who was now asleep. That violent man fell asleep after cracking the head of the woman he'd sworn to guard and protect.

Until finally one morning, when I was about to turn twelve, Mother and I discovered that the man had run off with his clothes, he'd broken into Mother's stash of money and jewelry, and left us, who knows where. There was no sign of him after that. Even now, we don't know where he is. In my deepest, darkest little heart, I wished he was dead.

"Leanne...?" Kim's reprimand brought me back to the present. "Am I right? Did you dream of him again?"

I looked down again, then nodded silently.

"After how long?"

"Almost a year."

"Is there anything that... wait, don't say this because ...."

I lowered my head even more, drowning my head. Without saying anything, Kim knew everything. She then acted as a good friend by hugging me tightly.

I couldn't cry. I don't want to cry here.

Marco's rejection, Marco's leaving... brought up that nightmare again. I who had managed to get over it for a year, managed to become my independent self and not depend on a man..., now that foundation was crumbling again.

I wanted Marco. I hated the fact that he left me, that he didn't like me, that I didn't get the attention and feelings from him, that I didn't receive enough love.

***

I forced my face to stop moping when I got off the plane. I searched for the whereabouts of Pedro, who had been insisting on knowing my flight schedule since this morning. I finally found a man with curly hair who was smiling broadly and waving.

He spread his arms as I walked closer to him. Pedro gave me a bear hug, rubbed my back briefly and then released it.

"As if I've been gone a long time," I sneered.

He laughed, bringing out the dimple that was only on the left side. He then took over my bag, leading me to walk. "How's Kim? Is she happy there?"

"Apparently so," I replied. "She's getting busier, but she's happy."

"Thank goodness." Pedro sounded genuinely relieved. I loved our friendship. We looked out for each other, cared for each other, and worried about each other. "Want something to eat?" he offered after he put my bag in the back seat of his car.

"Do you have croissants?"

"No," he replied, giving me a sad look, "but I will have them if we get there soon."

I (tried to) smile brightly, putting in my best effort to let Pedro see it. "Perfect." Then I got into the car. The smell of coffee wafted into my nose. Pedro is someone you can associate with coffee, pastries, and anything else that is warm and pleasantly scented. Even the gingerbread-shaped chain I bought him for Christmas last year is still hanging on the dashboard of his car.

My ride with Pedro would normally be relaxing, warm, and fun. However, this time I felt a little burdened. There's a tightness in my chest. This was difficult. I'm having trouble matching Pedro's seemingly endless energy. I was tired of pretending to be cheerful, forcing a smile.

When Pedro's car finally pulled up in front of his cafe, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Pedro would be busy in the kitchen for some time to come. It's my fault too. I shouldn't have said yes to his offer of food. I should have refused and asked to be driven home.

I followed Pedro to the back door of the cafe. The jingling of keys suddenly sounded so annoying. "Fuck," I cursed under my breath.

Pedro stopped his movement to open the door. He looked back. "What's wrong?"

"A bug," I answered quickly. I rubbed my forehead. "A bug hit my face."

Pedro laughed crisply. I couldn't even tell what he was laughing about.

The door finally opened. Pedro immediately grabbed the black apron hanging beside the door.

Without any prompting, as I was used to, I walked to the customer's stool, choosing a spot far enough away from the kitchen where Pedro would be doing his thing. I took out my cell phone from my sling bag, using it to make me look as busy as possible.

My hands were on my phone, scrolling through social media, while my eyes were so empty. I didn't even know what I was seeing on the screen. My mind wandered back to the dream, last night's dream.

The images jumped around: when I was a child, then in the present, and back to the past. I dreamt of Dante, my father, hitting my mother again. I saw his dirty hands, which usually smelled of cigarettes, clutching my mother's jaw. His mouth spoke so loudly that his disgusting mouth drooled. And then suddenly it was me who took my mom's place. My jaw was squeezed so hard. It hurt so much that I couldn't make out what he was saying.

Then somehow Marco came along. He pushed Dante away, but instead of saving me, he grabbed me instead. His cold hands were around my neck, pushing me against the wall, the grown-up me.

We changed places, no longer in my old house. We were in Marco's bedroom. He looked at me as if I was the most annoying woman in his life, as if whatever I did was annoying to him.

"You'd better fucking forget about me."

The words came out of his mouth again. My body seemed to loosen up after his grip on my neck loosened. Then he backed away, leaving me slumped on the floor.

I watched his back move away and then disappear into the darkness. And I screamed as I moved again, back to my old house, on the wooden floor that sometimes creaked if you stepped on the wrong part. The hand I was using to keep myself up was stepped on by someone. I looked up and found Dante's hideous face again. He was laughing bitterly, glad that Marco was gone, that he could now fill Marco's place again, that he could now go back to hurting me again.

And from that dream, I deduced something that made no sense. I not only wanted Marco, I needed him to get rid of Dante. I needed him so that Dante couldn't hurt me. And even though Marco hurt me too, and if there were only two choices between Marco or Dante, I preferred Marco. My subconscious was the same way. We both chose Marco.

To hurt me.

021222, Anne Joyce