Rocks and Jocks, a Career Day ((Open))

Screams. Louder and louder they rise. Screams. I run, as fast as I can, stumbling into the door frame, my legs a little unsteady in the dark expanse around me. Deacon stirs, but he doesn’t get up. He knows he doesn’t have to. I stumble down the hall, bouncing from wall to wall, as my eyes adjust to the dark, and my body realizes that I am in fact awake, and not just dreaming. Maia screams, louder and louder still. A stream of light burst forth to my right, and my mother stands in the doorway, looking distressed. She looks at me and the words don’t even need to leave her mouth. I flip my head back toward my room, to let her know Deacon needs her. He never seems to handle it well when Maia has nightmares. She turns and walks down to my room, flipping the light on. I place my hand on the hardwood door. Maia is still screaming and I breath deep. The door moves out of my way, as I walk forward and find the frail 11 year old girl laying in her bed, the sheets twisted around her flailing body, the screams beginning to grow hoarse. I walk forward, and place a hand on her narrow back. She jerks around and looks in my face, the color gone from her face and the tears flowing freely. I smile gently at her as he throws herself into my chest. She goes as close to fetal as possible, working her way onto my lap. He boney fingers clutch my shirt as she sobs into it. I rest my chin on her head, rubbing her back, beginning to rock slowly. I lightly press my lips to her forehead, and I can feel the heat of her body in my face. She has these nightmares on a regular basis, so this is not unfamiliar territory for me.

As the morning grows on toward dawn, Maia fades back into sleep. I lay her back on her bed as gently as possible. The nightmares are always for frequent in the spring. I could lie and say it doesn’t get to me, but everytime she starts screaming, it rocks me to the core. When you are the only male, the only protector, you want nothing more than to help the ones you love. I suppose that is true of all people, but for some reason my position seems to inherit more of these fealings. The night is aged, and off to the east, out the window wall above the door, opposite the narrow cat walk between our bedrooms, I see a narrow strip of light begin to birth. It is barely yellow, almost orange. Going to sleep doesn’t make sense now, my day starts in a little over two hours now. I walk into my room and grab a towel, shorts and a tank.

The water is hot, it always is this early. The only other people awake right now are Peacekeepers, and the other careers. I stand with my hands planted on the wall under the showerhead, letting the water run down my back. Steam billows up and out of the shower as I turn the nob, ending the cascade of steaming liquid. I step out onto the mat, wrapping a towel around my waist, and grabbing another. The cotton is a little rough to the touch. It’s a new towel, so I guess it’s ok. I rub it on my head violently, drying my hair and my face. I look into the mirror, my ice blue eyes staring back into the streak of red that would be the tip of my fauxhawk, but for now is just lying down the middle of my head, pointing toward my deformed nose.