I dreamt of you again.
As I sit in the morning light picking at the fragments of a dream, the jagged pieces come together and form a cohesive whole. I can see the whole picture, but there’s only one remaining piece that doesn’t belong, the one thing that doesn’t make any sense to me -- why you’ve been haunting me in my dreams yet again.
I was in Honduras again, with its green sloping hills and grey stormy skies, their kisses shrouded by the cover of stratus clouds. Many people were there, on mission trips to deliver Christ, on school-sponsored brigades to bring food, water, medications to the people. I wasn’t with my Duke brigade. I don’t know why I was there. I don’t know why so many people I’ve known were there either.
There was a girl in my brigade that I became friends with. I don’t remember her well, save that she had ebony hair, fair skin, and the facial features of a girl with mixed ancestry – presumably some Spanish and some kind of Asian. She became my closest friend there, and although I, like many others there, found her rather unusual in her behavior, I wanted nothing more than a friend. I was terrified of being alone.
We did everything together. We ate side-by-side, slept on the same bunk bed, volunteered at the stations. But something about us wasn’t quite right. It began to make my stomach churn, but I couldn’t ignore or avoid her. I’d already promised to myself that I would never use such underhanded tactics to cover up my own misanthropic tendencies. I continued to smile as she remained glued to my side.
It wasn’t long before I noticed the strange looks people shot in my direction, the covert whispers that would suddenly cease whenever I entered the room. People began to avoid me, and I grew paranoid of laughter, immediately wary of whether or not I was the subject of their mirth. In my paranoia, I couldn’t function. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep – my mind was on the verge of a breakdown.
One day, I suddenly remembered that you were staying in one of the buildings near the marketplace. I told my friend I’d catch up with her later, and I ran hurriedly to the ramshackle building with the mustard yellow roof and fading clay red walls.
You sat there by that rotting wooden table, playing a game of cards with another boy I knew I’d met once before. You were wearing that button-up shirt I’d seen you wear so many times, and you turned to look at me as if you’d already been expecting me.
“Sophelia? Funny to see you here. You know, we were just talking about that rumor that’s been going around that you’re a lesbian shacking it up with that girl who’s not quite right in the head.”
I broke down then. You watched me quietly as I made a fool of myself before you yet again, but this time you gestured towards the seat opposite to you and told me to sit. Your friend poured me a glass of water, nodded knowingly at you and left.
“Talk.”
I told you everything then. In that moment, I gave you more words than I’d ever spoken to you in my life. You didn’t interrupt me, not when your friends came in and joined us around the table, casually listening in and interjecting here and there. During dinner back at the brigade compound, you and I sat at the end of the table, impervious to the chatter of others. We weren’t even the same brigade, but you didn’t care. You stayed by my side, fending off the bemused stares of onlookers and muting the chattering gossips with our own conversations.
I’m awake now. I don’t understand. You were never there. I’d deluded myself for so long. Why does my subconscious still think of you as someone who would even give a damn about how I was feeling?
No, I don’t want to remember you. I don’t ever want to see you again. Every time you reappear, all those memories come roaring out of Pandora’s Box and then I see Hope lying at the bottom. And for a minute, I actually think it could have happened. If I’d spoken first, if we could have bantered in real life like we once did in Arial size 12 on the computer screen, everything would be different. I wouldn’t still be here, writing another pathetic post about how I can’t let this shit go.
