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I’m alone again. I’m walking along the road, towards the bridge. At first there are people all around me, laughing and talking. People I know. My dad and Dominic. And there are cars going along the road. It’s busy and light and bright and safe. But then everything changes, like it always changes. The people stop talking and start pointing and whispering. Pointing at me. I spin around and around looking for a friendly face, but there’s nobody I know any more.
I spin faster and faster and the faces mix and blur, before they disappear entirely, and there’s only one face left. Mum. I lean towards her but she steps away, walking onto the bridge, high above the river and fields below. Whatever I try, I can’t reach her. I can never reach her. I force myself to run towards the bridge, to get there before anything happens.
I’m too late. I’m always too late. And now I’m completely alone. My heart beats faster and faster, and I want to run. I want to run to my mum and beg her to take care of me, but I can’t move. I’m pinned to this spot, always alone.
I open my eyes. The sheet’s wrapped around my legs, like I’ve been trying to kick it away, and I’m covered in a layer of cold, horrible sweat. I force myself to breathe slowly, dragging the air into my lungs. I’ve only had the dream twice this week, the two nights I haven’t stayed at Dom’s. I glance at the clock. Ten to six. It could be worse. I screamed myself awake at three in the morning last night.
I sit up, pulling myself to the top of the bed so I can feel the solidity of the headboard against my back. It’s cold. The central heating hasn’t come on yet, and my skin starts to goosebump in the January air. I draw the duvet up around my shoulders.
I’ve lived in this house my whole life, but when I’m alone the place feels too empty. Things that should be familiar make me nervous. The cupboard, where I found my Christmas presents hidden when I was six, is a murky corner where unknown dangers lurk in the dark. I catch myself pushing doors all the way open when I come into the room, to squash whatever I imagine is hiding behind them.
My mouth is dry, and I need the toilet. In my head, I count the number of paces from here to the door and then along the hall to the bathroom. I think I’ll wait until it gets light.
I stick an arm out into the cold and find my phone on the bedside table. One new email. It’s from Dad. The feeling of connection calms me a little. What’s the latest from Verona going to be? So far all his messages have been about interesting sessions at the conference he’s attending. Ten days of presentations and discussions about the parallels and differences between the Renaissance and the Enlightenment periods in southern Europe. It’s what passes for fun if you’re a history professor, apparently. I haven’t heard from him for three or four days; maybe he’s finally having a holiday.
Emily,
Hope you’re well. I’m having a wonderful time.
Could you do me a favour and send the attached around to everyone in this list? Sorry to ask, but I don’t have all their addresses in my phone, and we don’t want to stay in all day searching for them.
I have a big surprise for you when I get back.
Lots of love,
Dad.
Then there’s a list of people. I open the attachment. It’s a party invitation for the day after he comes home, and somebody has had rather too much fun with the clipart. Not my dad’s style. Thinking about it, having party isn’t my dad’s style either. The surprise is intriguing though. I love presents. I lie back on the bed and try to relax. Something niggles. I open the message again. ... we don’t want to stay in all day searching for them. We? Who on earth is ‘we’?