Bad Dreams

• Lainey James, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2013

What are bad dreams anyway? Are they our imagination playing tricks on us, or, could they be us wanting an excuse to be noticed or loved when we feel abandoned? Sometimes even, they are the worst memories you have, that you try to lock away and forget.
Most people after nightmares snuggle to someone close that they love, like family and friends. I don’t.
Most bad dreams are of silly things, like giant monsters or about a movie you were told not to watch, but still did. Mine are worse. Much worse.
People see these things on tv and feel pity for those who have to suffer; they try to imagine what it would be like. But they have no idea.
Every night it’s the same. I am on a field laughing and smiling. Then the sky turns red and the fields of grass which were lush and green wither and die. I am now on the ground, fire burning all around me. I’ve walked to close and my legs are singed and cut by unseen glass, the gashes as long as 20 cm.
I try to wipe away all the blood, but it keeps streaming down my legs and onto the grass. I can’t feel my legs anymore, so I just give up. I start staring at my hands soaked in a crimson liquid, which I can’t comprehend as my own blood. I look down to see a puddle, covering the whole of my legs on the grass, the crimson of it and it’s iron-like smell is overwhelming, it is so foul I nearly puke.
At that point I always wake up in a cold sweat. Panting, my hands slowly travel down my legs reaching the stubby end that used to be my knees. I still remember being rushed to the hospital. I remember waking and finding I had no legs, just stubs where my knees should be.
But every morning I put on my facade and slip on my plastic legs and go to high school. I can still run and walk but I will never feel the sensation of being barefoot or stubbing my toe again.
No one realises how sad and depressed I am. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing a mask. When I have to smile and laugh they never really sound or seem genuine.
Lots of people say they know how I feel, and they understand. But they really don’t, no one can. Not my foster parents, or my friends and especially the teachers at school. I hear the kids whispering under their breath about how weird I am. Even the teachers say that for a sixteen year old, so much has happened to me, I should be insane. But I’m not. At least I don’t think I am.
The most terrible of bad dreams are memories because every time you wake up you can’t forget. You will never forget.