your name, love?”
“Draven,” he said with a smile. His eyes were chocolate brown.
She set her drink down and smashed out her cigarette. “Take me home straight away, Draven.”
“Anything you want, Krista.”
She laughed. “You know my name. That’s pritty good. Should I be worried about you?” The scene closed to darkness when she casually jumped into his arms.
In the next scene, she was lying on a bed, running her hands across the diamond and ruby bracelet.
“You’re not good enough for him,” a smooth sounding female voice said.
Krista sat up quickly and looked around the room, seeing no one. “Who’s there?”
“I’m the voice in your head, of course. The one you try to block out with all those pills.”
“No.” Krista shook her head. “I took my pills today.”
“He’s not coming back, you know.”
“Of course he is,” Krista said, failing to sound confident. “He’s only gone out to fetch me some ice cream. He’s going to marry me tomorrow.”
The voice laughed wickedly. “No. He’s not coming back. He doesn’t love you. You’re not good enough for him!”
“I am,” she cried out, but her voice was tiny.
More cruel laughter filled the room.
Krista rose uneasily. Grabbing her purse, she stumbled out into the dark alley. When she saw a dark figure walking toward her, she ran for him. “Draven, is that you? Did you come back to me? I told her you’d come back to me!”
Suddenly, a dim spray of light revealed a knife, glistening dangerously in the man’s possession, but she was running too fast and couldn’t stop herself. When she reached him, the knife plunged deep into her gut once and twisted before darkness swallowed the scene.
I gasped and sat up, holding my stomach and half-expected blood to be gushing from a wound there. My hands shook when I pulled the bracelet off and hastily tucked it back into its box. Tears streamed down my face, and my vision blurred while I typed out the story as I remembered it. When I finished writing, I called in to work, claiming that I had a flu bug. I sounded believable because my voice was sore and scratchy from crying.
I returned to bed. Nothing could erase the memory of the woman being murdered or the feel of the blade piercing through her flesh as if it were my own. The sound of the knife stabbing through her skin repeated through my ears, and the smell of fresh blood filled my senses until I could taste it in my mouth.
I’d always thought of myself as level-headed and rational but I couldn’t convince myself that what happened was just a dream. The tragic story and the brutal images stayed with me all day, and by nightfall I began to research old newspapers on the internet. I had to know if the dream was fact or fantasy. The investigation ended with an article that said Krista Young died at the age of twenty after being stabbed by a mugger on June 1 st , 1964.
The verification of my suspicions didn’t make me feel better at all, and the fact that she died on my birthday disturbed me on many levels. Did that connect her to me? My resemblance to both Alicia and Krista made me wonder if they had been me in former lives. “It belongs with you.” Maybe that’s what Draven was trying to tell me. But how could he know something like that? And why did he look exactly the same in both the dreams?
Having witnessed the deaths of two women who looked like me, I was more than worried about my own death sentence. They were so young…and the man each left behind had to be devastated. Even though the men couldn’t have been Draven, the fact that they looked liked him made my heart ache.
I tossed and turned for hours that night but eventually, sleep came.
Cough, cough, cough. I lay in a bed at the age of five coughing repeatedly.
My mom appeared worried as she put a mound of covers on top me. She looked different, more aged, like my surroundings. “Try to get some sleep, Melissa.”
I wanted to say, “I’m not Melissa,” but I
“Draven,” he said with a smile. His eyes were chocolate brown.
She set her drink down and smashed out her cigarette. “Take me home straight away, Draven.”
“Anything you want, Krista.”
She laughed. “You know my name. That’s pritty good. Should I be worried about you?” The scene closed to darkness when she casually jumped into his arms.
In the next scene, she was lying on a bed, running her hands across the diamond and ruby bracelet.
“You’re not good enough for him,” a smooth sounding female voice said.
Krista sat up quickly and looked around the room, seeing no one. “Who’s there?”
“I’m the voice in your head, of course. The one you try to block out with all those pills.”
“No.” Krista shook her head. “I took my pills today.”
“He’s not coming back, you know.”
“Of course he is,” Krista said, failing to sound confident. “He’s only gone out to fetch me some ice cream. He’s going to marry me tomorrow.”
The voice laughed wickedly. “No. He’s not coming back. He doesn’t love you. You’re not good enough for him!”
“I am,” she cried out, but her voice was tiny.
More cruel laughter filled the room.
Krista rose uneasily. Grabbing her purse, she stumbled out into the dark alley. When she saw a dark figure walking toward her, she ran for him. “Draven, is that you? Did you come back to me? I told her you’d come back to me!”
Suddenly, a dim spray of light revealed a knife, glistening dangerously in the man’s possession, but she was running too fast and couldn’t stop herself. When she reached him, the knife plunged deep into her gut once and twisted before darkness swallowed the scene.
I gasped and sat up, holding my stomach and half-expected blood to be gushing from a wound there. My hands shook when I pulled the bracelet off and hastily tucked it back into its box. Tears streamed down my face, and my vision blurred while I typed out the story as I remembered it. When I finished writing, I called in to work, claiming that I had a flu bug. I sounded believable because my voice was sore and scratchy from crying.
I returned to bed. Nothing could erase the memory of the woman being murdered or the feel of the blade piercing through her flesh as if it were my own. The sound of the knife stabbing through her skin repeated through my ears, and the smell of fresh blood filled my senses until I could taste it in my mouth.
I’d always thought of myself as level-headed and rational but I couldn’t convince myself that what happened was just a dream. The tragic story and the brutal images stayed with me all day, and by nightfall I began to research old newspapers on the internet. I had to know if the dream was fact or fantasy. The investigation ended with an article that said Krista Young died at the age of twenty after being stabbed by a mugger on June 1 st , 1964.
The verification of my suspicions didn’t make me feel better at all, and the fact that she died on my birthday disturbed me on many levels. Did that connect her to me? My resemblance to both Alicia and Krista made me wonder if they had been me in former lives. “It belongs with you.” Maybe that’s what Draven was trying to tell me. But how could he know something like that? And why did he look exactly the same in both the dreams?
Having witnessed the deaths of two women who looked like me, I was more than worried about my own death sentence. They were so young…and the man each left behind had to be devastated. Even though the men couldn’t have been Draven, the fact that they looked liked him made my heart ache.
I tossed and turned for hours that night but eventually, sleep came.
Cough, cough, cough. I lay in a bed at the age of five coughing repeatedly.
My mom appeared worried as she put a mound of covers on top me. She looked different, more aged, like my surroundings. “Try to get some sleep, Melissa.”
I wanted to say, “I’m not Melissa,” but I
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