Half-Breed

by Zachary Smith

  Chapter 5

  Air rushes into my lungs, freeing my chest of an unknown weight that had been sat upon it. Sweat covered and panting, I remain paralysed, pinned to my bed by fear. Already I know what’s happening to me, as I’ve been here time and time again, yet each time it doesn’t get any less terrifying. It becomes more real, a place in which I’m taken to against my will, filled with an unnatural darkness.

  One, two, three. I count my breaths; a technique one of many doctors taught me to use after having one of my episodes. Again, one, two, three.

  Shrouded in the dark, the sight of my bedroom is a happy one, for I know I’m safe within my home, but still, I do not move. Instead, I wait for my eyes to adjust, making my surroundings that little bit clearer, just to be sure.

  Pulling my dampened body from the saturated sheets, I pat my skin, checking there’s no real injuries or burns. There isn’t. But it felt so real, and even now in the coldness of my room, I’m unable to shake the feeling of heat from my body or the overwhelming thoughts of being burned alive.

  I know I should be used to it by now, it’s not like I’ve never had a night terror before, but they’re never the same. They take me places I’ve never been before and/or allow me to meet people I’ve never met, and for all I know they might not even exist. And worst of all, they throw me into terrible situations which no person should ever have to experience – and this, all from the comfort of my own bed.

  “They’re just images, they cannot harm you.” Another little gem from one of the many doctors I had the pleasure of meeting as a child, and they are right, in part. They are just imaged strung together in my mind; a film strip blasting out a movie, of which I’m the main star, the critic, and only audience member. Yet recently they are so much more, no longer do they become a hazy memory by morning, as I can now feel emotions, see, smell and touch my surroundings, which in itself makes the whole ordeal real, just like my waking life. It’s tiring. Ironic, considering this all happens while I sleep.

  My mobile screen illuminates as I hit the main button to read it’s 4:56am, which seems unusual as I normally have an episode a lot earlier. They tend to happen shortly after I fall asleep while my mind is still at its most active from the day before, but these things can’t really be timed all that well, they’re completely out of my control. Always have been.

  A creak at the door sends my heart into a flutter and I almost dive under my duvet to hide, only to be greeted by the large silhouette of my brother standing before the hallway light. “Again?” he asks.

  I nod.

  With bed hair covering part of his face, Matthew sits at the end of my bed, causing it to shake, like a large lorry has just driven by the house. “What was it this time?” he asks, as I continue to stare at him, relieved he’s really here, confirming it really was just a dream.

  “Um, I can’t really remember,” I lie. Not because I have to, but because I want to. How would I even begin to explain what I just saw? Plus, I feel he might take offence if I mention dream-Matthew had left me high and dry, even though I know he never would.

  And for a moment we sit in silence; Matthew trying to fix his hair while I try my hardest not to replay the dream over and over in my mind.

  “They’re becoming more frequent.” He says, once his hair is somewhat better, although still pretty shocking.

  “You don’t need to tell me,” I scoff.

  To see him here after yet another one of my episodes is the norm, from a young age he’s always been on the front line, rushing in at the last minute to save the day; always being there when I awoke. And I can’t help but feel a wave of guilt, as he’s always been on the other side of my nightmares, having found me numerous times walking the hallways, crying out or fitting in my bed as I’ve become trapped within my own mind. Yet he’s never once complained. That’s why our mum turned her study into a second bedroom for him. She said it was to give me some space, but I know it was to give him the space he deserved.

  “Well, whatever it was, you were a lot more vocal than normal.” He reveals, raising an eyebrow. “And, what’s a TJ?”

  Visions of his pure white eyes play out before me, was he real, or just another body dreamt up along with the evil me. It’s enough to send my thoughts into a downward spiral, so I push them out, blocking them. “I wish I knew,” I reply. I really do.

  They say dreams have a meaning to them, so what was his presence in mine? I can still hear his voice with that accent, “think for yourself,” he said moments before vanishing. It sounds like something from a self-help book. Which would mean I dreamt up a life coach no older than myself, for guidance at the age of sixteen. Am I really that lost?

  “You know the doctors all said the same thing, it gets a lot worse when you’re stressed.” Affirms a noticeably uncomfortable Matthew, he then shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “If something was on your mind, or” – he hesitates – “something is happening to you, you’d tell me right?”

  “Yeah, of course I would,” I say through a forced smile, straining my cheeks as I try and hold it in place. But I have the strangest feeling that he already knows, at least in part, that something hasn’t been right for the last few months.

  “Because,” – he hesitates again – “others might understand what you’re going through.”

  It’s a nice thought and I know I’m not the only one who has night terrors, or some other sleep disorder, but I do know he doesn’t, so he couldn’t possibly understand what I go through. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I flatly reply.

  Tapping my mobile, he looks at the time – now shortly past 5am – and makes his way to my door, stopping a few steps short of it. “Just don’t think you have to suffer in silence.” He then flips the light switch returning us to darkness and leaves.

  Staring up at the white ceiling above, I push my head deep into the soft pillow, knowing sleep won’t come easy. Even if I were tired, I wouldn’t be able to switch off, I’m far too wired for sleep, and plagued by the visions of his face – my face – staring down at me. What could it possibly mean? I could never be that evil and twisted… could I?

  Right on time, the alarm clock begins to beep, but I’m already wide awake, having not slept since my dream. I sigh, pulling myself out of bed and with my head down, I make my way to the bathroom.

  “Good morning Mitchell!”

  Startled, my whole body jumps. In my sleepy state I hadn’t noticed Matthew creep up behind me. “Really!?” I fume. “You know I didn’t have a good night!”

  Every morning after an episode I feel dazed, partly due to the lack of sleep, and partly because my mind hasn’t fully recovered from the nightmare itself.

  “Whoa! My bad.” He jeers, biting his lip.

  And with a quick sprint he then begins sliding across the laminate flooring, slapping me on the forehead as he passes. “Better hurry, time’s a-ticking.”

  To shove him away is futile, although I try, only for him to dodge my advances with ease, leaping down the stairs as he laughs to himself. “Loser!” I call out, only to be met with more laughter.

  The bathroom mirror reflection isn’t kind, it shows a tired pasty face looking back at me, with black circles under red puffy eyes and heavy eyelids. But it could be far worse, I should know… as I’ve seen it. Maybe Matthew is right, I must be over stressing and need to chill out a bit. I just need to keep reminding myself I’m not the only one who suffers from this… affliction.

  Time to smile Mitchell! It could be worse.

  Mum must’ve gone to work early this morning, which meant she couldn’t hold Matthew and me hostage over breakfast, resulting in my arrival to college in record time. And although she never showed up for the bus journey, I couldn’t help but keep a look out for the creeping looking, dark haired girl.

  Best of all, I haven’t had one blackout or waking dream all morning, and it’s already lunchtime. Although I’d never tell him, Matthew was right, I just needed to calm down, turn my thoughts off
for a while. Something that would be made much easier, for if I were not sat alone in the canteen waiting on Riley, who’s late, again. But it’s not all bad, not like normal, as we both have an earlier lunch on a Tuesday, meaning the canteen is basically deserted; other than me, there're only two small groups sat way over in the corner by the vending machines.

  “Sorry Mitch, Mrs Glynne wouldn’t let me leave.” Fumes Riley, as he slides into the middle seat opposite, wearing his white chef’s uniform, complete with hat.

  “She just can’t get enough of you!” I tease.

  Scanning my face, Riley raises an eyebrow. “Someone’s in a better mood today.” He says in a tone sharp with sarcasm. “You must have seen your girlfriend this morning.”

  “No, sadly not,” I reply, matching his tone. “Maybe she’s cheating on me?”

  “Oh no,” he sullenly says with a sympathetic nod. “Well, I’m always here for you, ya know, if you wanna talk?”

  Both unable to restrain ourselves any longer, we burst into a laughter that echoes through the empty canteen, garnering unpleasant looks from the other groups. “Pretty sure I’ll live,” I laugh. “But thanks.”

  Having skipped another meal, of which Riley gladly took off my hands, I begin to feel a little light-headed; nothing a quick sugar rush shouldn’t fix. But as I stand, I stumble forward, nearly landing on Riley’s lap. “Whoa, I said if you wanna talk. Nothing more.” He chuckles.

  “Headrush,” I confirm. “Want anything?”

  Taking a further bite of his sandwich, adding to his already overloaded mouth, Riley shakes his head. “Nah,” he answers, spitting food across the table.

  No further than one room’s length away, the vending machines stand. And what should be no more than a five to ten-second walk, feels more like an hour of hiking. Panting as I lean against the cooling glass, I wipe away a bead of sweat that drips down my forehead to my brow. Could I be getting sick? It would explain the lack of appetite I’ve been having these past few days.

  Using the newly purchased can of soda as an ice pack, I press it against my forehead as I make my way back to the table and breath through the pain of my fatigued muscles. Slumping into the chair, I let out a sigh of relief as my body melts into the hardened plastic, which after such a strenuous walk makes it feel like sitting upon a bed of feathers.

  Sat quietly – which is unusual for him – Riley smirks a tooth filled grin, fidgeting in his seat, as if he’s about to burst. “Is that her?” he blurts out, unable to contain himself for longer than five seconds.

  Drained, I take a quick scan of the canteen. “Who?” I mutter.

  The smirk grows upon his face as he begins to eagerly bounces up and down, making a chocolate curl fall to his forehead. “In your sketchbook,” he says, pointing to my open rucksack. “The girl! The girl from the bus?”

  Choking on my drink, some of which sprays out the side of my mouth, I manage to murmur. “Oh,” while blushing.

  Feeling pressured to answer him, made worse the longer we sit in silence, I try my hardest to think of a reply. But what could I possibly say that wouldn’t make me seem like some kind of stalker? Why did I draw her?

  “It’s such a good sketch dude!” he states, leaning into the table. “And all from seeing her once? On a bus!”

  “Yeah.” I shrug, succumbing to a hot flush.

  “Could you,” – he goes silent for a moment, thinking to himself – “sketch me?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I agree, purely to move on from the subject so I can try and contend with the sudden rise in temperature my body throws out.

  And it seems to work, Riley then turns his attention to his mobile. Playing some new game he downloaded over the weekend, which he’ll be bored of within a few days.

  Taking a massive gulp of soda to cool myself, I finish the can without even feeling the coldness hit my stomach. And as the heat wins, I lean forward and rest my head in my clammy hands, watching as a small pool of sweat collects on the table.

  “Mitch!?” says a concerned Riley. “You ok?”

  But before I can answer he rushes off, leaving me to burn up in the sweltering heat, with only the cool plastic to soothes my scorching skin.

  Out of breath from his run, Riley places a small cup of water before me as he returns. “Here, drink this.” He orders.

  Lifting my head, I let out a sigh and clear my burning throat. Reaching for the cup and forcing it into my hands, Riley looks down at me with his bright eyes and waits until I take a few sips. Instantly I feel the cold liquid flow into my body, cooling it for a brief moment before adding to the heat. “Better?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply, my voice harsh and strained. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “You do look terrible. Seriously, don’t be giving me your germs.” He says, sitting back down. “Maybe you should go home, get some rest. I’ll be able to survive without you for a few days.” He adds, pulling a worried face.

  A day at home would help if only to catch up on the sleep I’d missed out on the night before. “You’re right,” I sigh.

  “Riley knows best.” He affirms with a nod.

  Mustering up all my strength, I manage to pick myself up from the seat. “I’ll text you later,” I assure, making my way to the exit.

  “You better.” He calls outs.

  Hallways now busy with students making their way to the canteen, I force my way through the crowds until I finally make it to the bus stop, welcoming the damp air as it hits my skin. Arriving within a minute’s wait, I take a seat on the relatively quiet bus, put my headphones in and hum along to a song, trying to take my mind off the aches and pains of my overheated body. And it can’t be more than five minutes in when I’m hit by the same anxious feeling I had the morning I saw her. Begging for my attention once more, I’m forced to turn in the direction I’m being called. Only for our eyes to meet a second time.