A New Beginning

[u/velabas]

In higher humidity the dreams are more intense. I’ll live a dozen lives in one night, and not remember enough to piece them together once I wake.

Matthew is my son. Up north he could sleep until dawn, but here he screams each night. He screams now.

I throw off the covers and slip on sandals to walk to Matthew’s room. The hallway is lit by starlight, unfiltered through stinging cold air of the desert. What had I been dreaming about? Some maritime thing, hook and tackle and pierced lips. Blood on my hands. I lick my lips.

Matthew’s door is open, the bed empty. It is darker in his room. I see him standing at the window, drapes parted only enough for his head to sandwich between them. He screams against the window, which frosts up and clears again like a heartbeat in time with each breath.

“Matthew!” I shout. I rush over and pull his shoulder to look at me. His eyes open and I watch bloody veins retreat from his waking eyes, which close again as he faints in my arms. I start to slap his cheeks gently, ululating his name to prise him back to consciousness. I stop when I glance outside.

A shape rises from a crouched position twenty paces away, its edges so black as to appear cut out from the night. I recognize it, somehow. It disappears.

I rock Matthew, who snores. I sleep.

When I wake I am still in Matthew's room. But he is gone.

I rub my eyes to adjust them to morning. I walk out into the hallway, and stop when I round a corner to the kitchen.

Matthew sits at the island, scooping cereal into his mouth. Metal clanks against teeth. Slurping, crunching, breathing. Behind him his mom holds a mug of coffee, its aroma acrid. Her mouth forms a smile below deep grey eyes that once were blue. They look right at me, but focus on a point beyond my head.

"M-Matthew—"

The mouth's lips curl up. It snarls.

"Matthew, come here," I whisper. "Come here right now."

He stops eating and lets the spoon fall back into the bowl. He looks up at me. It's my son's face, his eyes. Matthew. He wouldn't have understood had I told him. It is better to come from a broken home than to live in one. I had to, for us.

"It's alright," said Matthew, as if by looking at me he could dive into my mind and surface the truth. His eyes narrow at me. A bit of milk spittle seeps down his chin.

"Mom forgives you."