The Dreamer

To my surprise, our house, usually dark and quiet at this hour, was aglow with light. Every window illuminated a warm, golden hue and the gate that guarded the driveway was left wide open, gently swinging in the afternoon breeze as if directing me towards the front porch. The house radiated an oddly welcoming aura, one that I was unfamiliar with, yet, unknowingly loved and longed for.

My heart beamed with happiness as a cauldron of excitement and anticipation brewed within me. Ascending from the footpath, my impatient hands scavenged my pockets for the key. However, someone managed to get to the door faster than I did. And that someone was Mila.

I stood facing Mila, my little sister, a broad smile stretching across her chubby face. 

“Tori’s here, Tori’s here!” 

Mila’s pigtails bounced behind her down the hall as she cradled a dark purple book, slightly dull against her fluorescent, neon dress.

Her eyes sparkling with fascination, “Did you know that plants feed themselves through photosynthesis?”.

Before I could respond, she shoved the book into my hands. 

“I already read the whole thing! You have to read it if you haven’t yet–you’d love it!”. 

The botany text was edged with a delicate golden lace and a familiar embroidery of an orchid in the centre. A smirk curled at my lips as I rolled my eyes and gently shook my head.

 “You cheeky monkey!” I exclaimed.  “Whatever you do next time, keep your mischievous hands off my precious nature encyclopaedias!”. 

 She erupted into an explosion of giggles, bright and contagious, echoing off the walls of the hallway. Unable to contain myself, I joined her, dashing after her as she attempted to escape my reach. 

Suddenly, a shadow twice her size towered over her, and she came to a sudden stop. A small gasp escaped my lips. It was Papa. My mind raced with confusion, clueless but overjoyed. Why were they home? But it didn’t matter. I didn’t know why they were home, nor did I need to know. What truly mattered was that they were there. 

After greeting Mila and Papa, I searched the hallway for Mama. But the familiar aroma of a beefy, hearty broth had found me first. Following the tangy scent that wafted from the kitchen, I was met by a simmering pot of beef stew and my favourite person in the world–Mama. 

Mama engulfed me as she dived in for a hug, her arms enveloping me in a cocoon of warmth. The house was alive with love and security, and I stood in the centre of it all, refusing to let go of the fleeting moment. Her eyes gazed into mine, and she softly nudged me towards the dining table. But the ocean of safety had already washed away. Mama was fading out of sight. My vision fragments and time slows down. The scent of stew and the warmth of Mama’s embrace was now replaced by fear and the voice of another. I turn around, my ears struggling to pinpoint the voice of the unknown figure. Suddenly, a jarring sensation tugged at my shoulder, and the kitchen flickered into a blur of darkness. Home had never felt so distant.

–

Dream Chapter: 

Focusing my vision, my eyes diverted towards the faint light in the distance. The kitchen lay scattered before me, with Mama at the stove once more, a ladle and a large pot cradled in her arms. She glanced at me and smiled, before walking to the dining table. ‘Dinner’, I thought with eagerness, followed by a whirl of sorrow. Last night’s stew had been unpleasantly bitter and almost sour. The chunky pieces of beef were too tough and it was way too spicy for my liking. In a hopeless attempt to mask my disappointment, I mustered a smile.

It was wrong to avoid sharing my honest opinion on the stew–feedback had to be provided this time. Considering the thought, I tapped Mama on the shoulder and pointed to the pile of ingredients across the table. Understanding my gesture, she nodded, acknowledging my request. Mama directed me onto a short stool, and a handful of diced onions was poured into the boiling pot. She chuckled and nodded, then I moved off to the side, feeling satisfied with the adjustments made.

–

The first rays of early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting a soft, amber glow across my bed. My eyelids fluttered open with the cheerful thought of a fresh, new day, but quickly shut again as the realisation of another dreadful school day hit me. Groaning, my face buried deeper into the pillows, refusing to leave the warmth of my bed. My head felt heavier, more cluttered than the night before. An awful, lingering sensation–almost a dizziness–lurked in my mind, the reason or purpose of it impossible to pinpoint. The feeling was persistent, like the annoying sensation of forgetting something and struggling to remember. Trying to grasp the fuzzy feeling only made it harder to understand, leaving my head spiralling in an endless loop of confusion and frustration.

Downstairs, the house was dark except for the kitchen, where the light had been left on. Mama and Papa had likely already left for work, and Mila had probably been dropped off at childcare, as the house was quiet. On the table was a set of neatly organised cutlery, my lunch thermos, along with my water bottle. A small sticky note on top of the thermos read: “Enjoy your lunch. Your favourite leftovers today.” Remembering the taste of the stew, my face twisted with disappointment. I couldn’t hide the fact that my ‘favourite’ stew had disturbed my appetite. My stomach churned just thinking about it.

Ignoring the thought, a single glance at the clock revealed the time: Four minutes before the bus. I shoved my lunch into my bag and raced for the front door, my heart heavy with sorrow at the thought of another boring day of school.

—

The shrill ring of the school bell pierced the silence, indicating the start of lunch. I was too hungry to care whether I would like my meal or not. I was desperate.

The cold metal of the hard bench permeated through my thin school skirt and straight into my thighs. The chatter of the girls at the other end of the table washed over me–could daily maths lessons be a metaphor for making PE twice as short? I tuned out the conversation, random, abstract. My gnawing stomach growled with a deep, low rumble, demanding me to open the thermos. Unscrewing the lid, my nose flinched, expecting the peppery, congealed taste of the night before to escape with the steam and attack my senses. 

Metal table, alone. Two other people on the other end of the table, complaining about the extension in maths lessons being the reason for the lack of PE classes–was maths ever necessary? 

Suddenly, something had flashed through my mind. It was long enough to notice, but too short to recall. Yet, my head suddenly felt lighter. Shoving a spoonful of stew into my mouth, I had braced myself for an overpowering, bitter broth to bite at my taste buds and rubbery chunks of beef too tough for me to chew. Instead, to my surprise, generous cubes of tender beef smothered in a rich, hearty broth were pleasantly discovered. The flavour was subtly tangy with an underlying sweetness from the generous slices of caramelised onions. My eyes widened with wonder–it was just the way I liked it. 

Although the taste was different, something told me it was familiar, as if it had always been this way. My memory was an indescribable blur, and the more I tried to recall it, the further it seemed to slip away, until it vanished completely. With an irritated grunt, the thermos was slammed onto the table. My mind constantly tried to convince me that everything had made sense, when it obviously didn’t. An inescapable, hollow sense of blankness and incompleteness had grown within me. Had something been missed? However, knowing that overthinking would eventually get the better of me, I decided to enjoy my lunch before the bell rang for class again.