TheSame
TheSame
Dream
By K. C. Bright
fiction
It seems like I’ ve had the same dream for years. In my dream I wake up in a place that is clean. Fresh paint on the wall, spotless floors, the smell of new. In my dream I sleep in a bed that’ s so soft I almost sink down into it. And the sheets are crisp and smell like they were hung outside in the sunshine to dry. I pull the thick, warm blankets up to my chin. The pillow never gets a flat spot from my head. It stays comfortable.
Someone knocks on the door every morning in my dream place.
“ Justine, it’ s time to get up,” the voice says.“ It’ s time for breakfast.”
I get up. Happy. Glad to be getting some hot coffee and sweet cinnamon rolls.
The place in my dreams is safe. No one chases after me, trying to hurt me. No one tries to take my things or get in bed with me. I can be myself and cry if I need to and laugh when I want to. Nobody cares if I snort a little when I’ m laughing. They just like me for who I am.
Someone is always giving me a hug in my dream. Not a hug that leads to more. No. A hug that just means“ you’ re special to me.” I haven’ t had one of those hugs in a very long time. In my dream I can feel that hug from my toes to my head. It’ s a warm feeling.
I don’ t want to use in my dream. No drugs or alcohol. No pills. I don’ t need them. The only feeling in my dream is good. That’ s not a feeling I want to push off. Even if someone put a rock in my hand or a beer in front of me, I wouldn’ t need it.
My body is mine in that dream.
Nobody’ s trying to pick me up. No one is making me do anything that I don’ t want to do. Because in that dream, I am free.
But it always ends. The dream doesn’ t last because it isn’ t real. When I open my eyes I remember that my life is very different from that dream. In real life, I live in a place that’ s very dirty. The paint is peeling off the walls. All around is the smell of filthy bodies and old cigarette smoke. I don’ t always get to sleep in the bed. Only sometimes. When Daddy’ s being nice. He’ s only nice to me if I bring him enough money. But I hardly ever do enough for him. And no matter what I do, I’ m always cold. Even in the summer there’ s some kind of a chill to my skin.
I can’ t believe I’ m living this life. It’ s hard to believe the things I do. I wish I didn’ t have to think about them. But it’ s my fault. I let this happen to me. I should never have believed the promises that Daddy made. That he’ d take care of me. That he was going to be a good man to me. That I’ d only have to turn one trick.
I was a good student. My teachers loved me. They believed that I could do anything. And I played basketball. That’ s when I lived in Chicago. My mother was so proud of me. I could hear her cheering for me from the bleachers. It felt good.
How did I end up her? Thirty-five years old and running around like a fool to make money for Daddy. I’ ve done this for so long. I know I started when I was in high school. But how did I get all the way here? Hundreds of miles from home and even further from my hopes.
I remember the first time. The first trick. It was only supposed to be a onetime thing. I was so scared. I didn’ t want to do it. It hurt so badly. And he made me do it again. And again. And again. Different men all the time. All of them started looking the same. The smell of them suffocated me. Made it hard to breathe. The only thing I could do was close my eyes. And I would go to the dream. After a while I learned to get high or drunk. Or both. I didn’ t eat. All I wanted was to stop feeling. I wanted to stop feeling like I was part of myself. My mother always told me not to do drugs. Not to get drunk. They would ruin my life. And
I believed her back then. I was so much smarter then. How’ d I end up here? The track is a bad place. Walking up and down the sidewalk all night long, trying to get men to stop their cars and let you in. Men looking for a date. You never know who’ s going to pick you up. Who you’ re going to meet. They’ re all different. They’ re all the same. And when they’ re done, when you’ re done doing your work on them, they’ re done with you.
They don’ t care that I’ m Justine Deveroux from Chicago, Illinois. They don’ t care that I’ ve had four kids. That I didn’ t even get to see my babies after they were born. That I love all four of my children. The men don’ t care. They don’ t know that I’ m dead. I walk. I talk. But I am dead.
The only thing they care about is themselves.
I have to walk back to the motel every morning. By the end of the night I’ m tired and my body is sore. All I want to do is sleep. But first I have to give all my money to Daddy. I don’ t keep any of it.
I know I look rough. This morning more than others. Last night I got beat up by a date. He told me that he liked it that way. He hit me, pulled out my hair, spit in my face. I didn’ t know if he was one of the kind that would kill me. There are plenty of men like that. So I closed my eyes and pictured the clean place. The soft place. The warm place. Any place that wasn’ t right there. Then, what was happening wasn’ t me anymore. I wasn’ t there.
My walk back to the motel is long this morning. And I’ m getting a later start. It’ s already light out. There are so many people driving their cars past me. They’ re going to work or driving their kids to school.
Some of them are looking at me. Some of them look down, look away, look straight ahead so they don’ t have to see me. They wish I wasn’ t there. They wish that I would just disappear. And they all know what I am.
In my dream there’ s no one who calls me a whore. That word doesn’ t even exist in my dream.
I’ m getting sick. It’ s been too long since I used. Too long since I had some-
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