Dream Sequence

Prologue: Four Years Ago

Are you kidding me?

I thought as I looked down. The bottoms of the new Hello Kitty pajama pants my mom got me for Valentine's Day were now caked with leaves and mud. I glared up my snot of a brother — who actually laughed at me. I took my earphones out; rock music would do nothing for me now.

"Seriously?" I asked, silently willing him to drop dead into the pile of leaves I'd raked — well, what used to be a pile.

Thanks to

him

, everything's scattered. I'm going to kill him. I bet that's what my dad wants.

Why else would he force me to work with such an infuriating little

monster? As if to prove my point he started singing into his broom, and danced around the carport. I looked to my older brother (he's supposed to know what to do, right?) for help; I needed to reign the other one in somehow. He just looked at me and smirked. I won't miss him when he goes to college next year. I was on my own, it seemed. I lunged for my little brother, almost tripping over my own rake in the process. "What the fuck —" I swore to myself, but cut off when I saw the devil reincarnate start dancing down the street.

"Simon! Really?!

Why are you doing this to me?"

I groaned. We were supposed to be doing yard work. "Get your ass back here!" I hollered after him, but my screams never registered past his thick skull. He was half-way down the street now; broom in hand, singing to himself like he didn't have a pile of leaves to sweep up. For a twelve-year-old, he looked awfully stupid.

"God

dammit

!" I swore again.

He rarely listened, so why would he start now? I dropped my rake and gave chase, my pink and green slip-on Keds slippery from the mud. I dragged him back and shoved him towards the leaves.

"Get to work," I growled. He just looked at me and laughed. Apparently, I'm hilarious when I'm furious.

I wedged my earphones back into my ear, cranked up the melodies of Circa Survive, and violently re-raked the leaves into a somewhat-orderly pile. I traded my rake for the broom he

wasn't

using, and swept behind the garbage cans and into every cement crevice. The morons stood there telling "yo momma" jokes back and forth. I don't think they realized that they had the same mother. . .

"

Idiots

," I muttered.

I saw my older brother reach for the basketball then, aiming for the hoop that was directly above my head —

"Graham,

don't

!" I dropped my broom and held one hand out to him, —like I could somehow stop him — the other flying towards my head to fend off the oncoming basketball.

Sure enough, seconds later I was smacked on the head with a dirty, who-knows-what-covered basketball.

It's the little things in life,

I thought to myself as I picked up the ball and heaved it back up through the hill of our front yard and into the bushes. Satisfied, I picked up my broom again. They groaned but I ignored them. . . I tried, at least.

"Mia," Simon turned to me.

I pretended not to hear him, and turned up the volume.

"Mia!" He yelled, and then pushed me.

"What?!" I yelled back at him. So much for keeping my cool.

"You haven't done anything!" He chided through bouts of annoying laughter. He thought he was being funny.

Funny

.

I'm pretty sure my face showed how incredulous I found his accusations . . . and the some. Graham, seeing I was about to burst at the seams, tried to placate me.

"He's kidding, Mia. Chill." Oh yeah, great job.

"Are you fucking

kidding me

?" I exploded in an octave higher than usual. The fact that my little brother could get me so angry just made me even more frustrated.

"Ooh," Simon mocked in a sing-song voice, "she said the f-word." He went to stand by Graham and leered at me.

"Because I'm so fucking

frustrated

! I can't catch a fucking break around here! I'm going to fucking kill you!"

Was that enough times?

People seriously overlooked hostility in brother-sister relationships. I felt so misunderstood by everyone it was almost cliché. Of course he just laughed at me, and went on telling those stupid jokes to Graham again. I didn't understand. We used to get along fine. . . I used to think Graham was the most annoying, but now Simon. . . I was really about to shove my broom up his ass if I had to hear one more, 'Yo momma's

so

big . . .'

I leaned against the stone walls of the carport and sighed, drowning in the loud bass that vibrated in my ears. I looked up to the sky; cloudless and blue even though it was only February. It was chilly, but nice enough that I only had pajamas and a sweater on. The thought of pajamas made me scowl again.

When my father finally came back home, groceries in hand and all smiles, Simon smiled his own and yelled at me, complaining that I wasn't doing anything. I was beyond pissed off again.

"Me?" I stared from him to Graham disbelievingly. "I got every leaf in a pile while you went skipping down the damn street!" I looked the Graham to back me up; we all knew I was telling the truth. "It's true!" I added.

Simon scoffed. "S'not."

Graham grinned, obviously enjoying my predicament. "It so

isn't

, Mia. You haven't done anything."

My dad just said something that sounded like an 'okay,' then headed upstairs; not believing me. Ouch — betrayal always stings.

"I fucking hate you guys," I said, hoping they would hear, but knowing that they wouldn't — they never do.

I was just a fifteen year old girl trapped in some lowlife town with two obnoxious, resentful brothers as siblings. I was bound to be hormonal and — according to them — overreact to everything.

When I made it back upstairs, I flopped down on the fluffy, white comforter on my bed.

Yelling can drain your energy awfully fast,

I thought. Lazily, I lifted one hand to turn the music up on my radio, only to have static come on instead.

"Fuck it," I muttered. I grudgingly got up and let my legs dangle over the side of my bed. The air changed suddenly, and I knew someone was in my room with me.

"Simon, get the fuck out of here." I didn't even turn around to see if it was him, who else could it be? He chuckled. Only it was a lower sound, more . . . masculine. Definitely not the nasally whine I was used to. Unless, of course, the kid in question had a growth spurt in the blessed moments I was away from him . . . As if hearing my biting train of thought, he chuckled again. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I slowly placed my hand over it, as if I could will the prickled feeling to go away.

I spun around quickly, only to find no one. I sighed; I really needed the lay of the Cheetos . . . someone told me that orange shit does serious things to your head . . . I heard another chuckle and I whipped my head around.

"Gah!" My voice was high-pitched and strangled. I scampered away from the intruder, who stood still — grinning at me. I could feel the tears coming.

Of all the days,

I thought as I opened my mouth to scream. He was gone, though, the second I blinked.

"I'm completely crazy, no wonder my brothers hate me," I thought out loud, half-joking, hugging my knees to my chest.

"On the contrary, I find your . . . imaginative sanity quite refreshing," a deep voice said to my left.

I groaned. "Okay, I've lost it. There is no

way

someone is actually in here . . ."

He sighed, but I refused to look at the figment of my 'imaginative sanity.' "See me or not, but believe what I say."

I grunted and closed my eyes.

I have some serious problems.

He made a noise in the back of his throat.

Was that a growl

? "You're perfectly fine. Now, listen. The night you go looking; you will see something else. Listen to their pleas ; they will be forever grateful. Abandon them; they shall abandon you."

I felt his eyes on me, but I resisted the urge to turn my head. His dark eyes were unnerving. "What's with the riddles?"

He snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Did you hear?"

I have ears, so yes. . . I'm tired.

I thought suddenly, and I lay down on my pillow, not really caring for him anymore. My eyes closed effortlessly, and I heard a soft, lulling noise above the static on my radio. It sounded like he was humming. When I didn't say anything out loud, he reached over to place his hand on my forehead. His hand was cold.

The night you go looking; you will see something else. Listen to their pleas; they will be forever grateful. Abandon them; they shall abandon you.

It repeated over and over in my head; a broken record.

"Now, do you hear?" The words were a whisper, but more clear than anything else that was said.

I hear ya

, I thought sleepily. The bed never dipped with the absence of his presence, but I knew when he wasn't there anymore.

No more Cheetos . . .