Chapter 1 - Arianna
Tree trunks flash by in a blur, the brown quickly turning to gray streaks on either side of me. Gloomy. Eerie. Highlighting the dread that passes through me as I race forward.
I'm being chased. There's no time for questions when my eardrums are too full of the ferocious drumming of the chase, the adrenaline, the fear, all wrapped up in a parcel ready to detonate if I'm not fast enough. If I get caught,I'll die…
I just know it.
So, I just have to keep running, keep pushing forward, even when it feels like my knees are going to give out, my heart races with speed that fuels the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, firing up my bones until I'm bolting at the speed of lightning through the woods illuminated by the moonlight. Thank Goddess for the gift of the moon, I think through the blur of my mind that's set only on escaping the thing that's chasing me.
A moment of gratitude is a moment of weakness that should have been avoided. My foot hooks on a tree stump, my lightning pace coming to an abrupt halt that knocks me over, catapulting me forward to roll down the stretch until I'm stopped by a rooted tree.
The impact hazes my vision, but I blink open my eyes with a struggle that lasts long enough for a dark, looming presence to steal the moon's light and cover my surroundings in darkness. A chill courses down my spine, settling into my bones and keeping me frozen as I watch the imminent terror growing larger, more consuming than ever. I brace myself for whatever impact might follow, squeezing my eyelids shut, but it doesn'tstop the darkness from surrounding me or shield me from the torturous shriek that slices through my eardrums.
My eyes snap open, but this time I'm met with the ceiling in my bedroom. I know I just escaped another nightmare, waking up to the sight of the familiar log fixtures in the structure that keeps me safe, and I'm swimming in the pool of a cold sweat that sends shivers of relief washing over me.
It's only relief because it was just another nightmare, not a real threat chasing me through the forest. But I can't shake off the feeling that the threat isn't just confined to my overactive imagination, even as I wipe the sweat from my forehead and sit upright.
I shouldn't be so shaken up by the nightmare, but I've been experiencing them every night for the past week. Each one picks up where the other left off, and I've been running from something,someone, as if they're going to kill me.
I just know it…I can feel it in my bones that danger chases me in those dreams, even though I have no idea what it is,whomit might be…
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the water I've learned to keep on my nightstand, chugging down the full glass before lugging in more deep breaths to calm myself before climbing out of bed.
The rising sun whispers through the lace curtains covering my bedroom window; despite how frightening my nightmares are, they work as an alarm in the mornings. It's not just my life that feels threatened by them, but the life of my son sleeping beside me. I turn to him, a smile lifting my lips, the sight of his warm face with its soft glow from the sun kissing his cheek always refilling my heart with overflowing love.
“Good morning, Noah-kins…” I whisper softly as I press a nudging kiss to his cheek. Long, dark lashes lift to reveal twinkling, sleepy hazel eyes that reflect my own, his groggy yawn wide as I curl a protective arm over him.
“Hi, Mama…” he whispers in response, shuffling closer and settling into my arms, his face nuzzled into my side.
My sweet boy's warmth extinguishes my worries, but the persistent flicker of doubt remains even as I hold him tightly, protectively. I know it's probably my mind working overtime, but I've never quite been in the clear for most of his life.
I've always had to keep one eye open, always watching my back to make sure he’s safe. I guess it's motherly instincts that keep me wary, cautious, but the last time I trusted my instincts, I was left terribly heartbroken.
This is different, I assure myself, even if there's no real reassurance at all. I have to be cautious for Noah's sake. He's too small to face the terrors out there, the pain, the rejection…
Go home….
I gasp when a tiny voice inside my head whispers the two words that have been haunting me ever since the dreams began. Noah hears my frightened intake of breath and lifts his head to frown at me.
“Mama…okay?” he asks dotingly.
I force a smile that's convincing enough when I say, “I'm fine, my baby.” Acting more courageous than I feel right now, I slip my hands under Noah's arms and pull him onto me. “It's almost time to get ready to go see Aunt Lyra. Would you like pancakes for breakfast?”
Noah's hazel eyes sparkle eagerly as he nods, a smile painted across his face. That's a sure way to prevent him fromworrying about me or asking too many questions that I don't have the answer to.
As Noah and I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen for breakfast, a shiver passes through me, the unsettling feeling of being unsafe in our own home lingering. I help Noah onto a chair before heading to the cabinets to get out the ingredients I need for pancakes, my appetite slowly appearing only because I remember what it's like when these cabinets were empty.
Harsher times called for double shifts, and I befriended my kind-hearted neighbor, who helped me care for my newborn while I sought work in town. It's why I have a hard time trusting my instincts—it's the reason why I've been subjected to life as a single mother. I'd trusted my gut and got the wind punched out of it soon after.
“Want two, Mama!” Noah calls from behind, prompting me to glance over my shoulder and see him holding up two fingers. Shrugging off my trepidations and calming myself with a deep intake of breath that lifts a smile on my face, I nod and continue preparing pancakes.
There's no point in mulling over a series of dreams that have no basis in reality. I'll only get caught up overthinking my every move, and I must remain present for Noah's sake, especially in his formative years.
He'll be four soon, and that means he'll only be a year short of an age that will no doubt come with a search for answers—a transitional phase when he, too, will have a tiny inner voice that will whisper the questions that he'll bring to me.
That's when I'll have a lot of explaining to do, like why I ran away from home in the first place, or who his father is.
Not wanting to mull over any of it right now, I pick up Noah's plate and join him at the kitchen table. We say grace,thanking the God Noah's been learning about from Lyra, before digging in.
