8. Dreams

Dreams

Bishop

As I climb into my bed, my body is somehow both sore and loose after the intensity of that rut. I look at the photograph in my hand. It is so worn, the texture resembles cotton more than paper. 1

One of the many creases cuts through my mother's face, eerily scratching out her eyes. Even so, she still radiates warmth, her smile beaming and candid. My small, three-year-old arms are wrapped around her neck as she gives me a piggyback ride. I have an equally bright smile, my chin resting on her shoulder.

The print is intentionally folded in half, and for the first time in years, I'm tempted to spread it open. When I do, my father stares back at me. I'm taken aback by his genuine smile, his green eyes crinkling in the corners. I don't remember him looking so . . . kind. Like a happy family man. Something about this misleading moment frozen in time pisses me off.

I search his face for the angry man I knew, but I can't find him.

Instead, I just see a beautiful, young family. His olive skin and jet-black hair are handsome on his lean face with a square jaw and prominent cheekbones. My mother's skin is a few shades darker, but her hair is a lighter brown with an auburn hint. Where his face is cut and angular, hers is round and heart-shaped.

I'm an even mix of the two of them. In the photo, my short curls hang looser than my mother's tight coils but are lighter in color than my father's straight hair.

I shake my head and refold the picture. I don't like seeing any part of myself in my father. I tuck the photo away. I don't even know why I took it out. Maybe in some way, I feel like I need to apologize to the woman in the picture.

Laying my head on the pillow, I close my eyes and immediately my thoughts return to the bathroom. To her soft skin and parted lips. How her wet hair stuck to her back and her breasts swung with each of my thrusts, her pebbled nipples dragging against the counter.

My cock shamefully thickens at the memory, and I force my thoughts away, returning to the photograph. Latching onto the distraction, I cycle through my memories from that time.

Even after exile, the Ceruleans stayed tightly knit, entire lineages remaining together. Our generation was no different.

Growing up, we lived in a four-story walk-up nestled between storefronts. Titus, Ecker, and I each lived with our parents in different apartments, but it felt like living in one big house. Our building sat on the perimeter of a pedestrian-only square with a large fountain in the middle. We used to pretend it was a courtyard to our castle, running circles, playing with wood swords, and wreaking general havoc among shoppers.

All day, people would stop at the fountain and make a wish, throwing in a penny. The bottom was so covered it looked like copper fish scales. As a child, I never understood why people wished on something of so little value. A penny, really?

My father was the worst kind of alpha, blaming the way he abused my mother on a rut rather than the truth: that he was a deadbeat son of a bitch. On particularly bad nights, like when he smashed beer bottles and forced my mother over the dining table, she would beg me to go to Titus's or Ecker's apartments.

I hated leaving her, but when I did, I never left without one of my Hot Wheels. I always made one stop before going to one of their places.

It was usually late enough that not many people were in the square, maybe a couple or two enjoying a cone from the gelato shop. Sometimes, I left in such a hurry, I'd forget my shoes, treading over the cobblestone to the fountain barefoot.

I wasn't big enough or strong enough to go up against my father, but I had this fountain.

When it felt like the only thing I could do to help her, I sure as hell wasn't going to wish on a penny. Instead, I'd squeeze my eyes closed with my most valuable item clutched tightly in my hand. Even now, I can imagine the feel of the metal edges in my fist.

I'd wish for my dad to stop hurting my mom again and again in my head before turning around and throwing the toy car over my shoulder. I'd listen for the heavy plink of water, then spin around to see where in the fountain it landed.

Years and dozens of cars later, at my fifteenth birthday party, the police stormed our apartment in full SWAT gear to take our parents away. Someone had tipped them off that noble-blooded alphas and an omega were living unsuppressed—my father, Titus's father, and Ecker's mother.

Later that night, my brothers and I sat among littered party streamers torn down by the police, eating my uncut birthday cake with plastic forks. I remember feeling terribly guilty because while Ecker and Titus were devastated and lost, all I could think was that my wish upon a Hot Wheel had finally come true.

I fall asleep at some point during my reminiscing, my memories morphing with my dreams.

I'm standing outside, barefoot. The fountain from my childhood is behind me. I listen to the familiar plink of the water, comforted by the wave of optimism and hope it gives me. I look up at our building, counting the street-facing windows until I reach our unit. The light inside is warm and homey. It feels offensively incongruous with what I know is happening in there.

My heart leaps into my throat when a woman's body is thrown up against the window. Her breasts under a white T-shirt flatten on the glass. Ugly shame makes me want to avert my eyes. That's my mother.

I can't help but torture myself, daring a glance at what I know will be her tear-streaked face. I don't know why I do it. Maybe penance for leaving her, not being able to protect her.

My mouth falls open when I see the person looking down on me. Silver-blonde hair and aqua eyes.

My—our—omega gazes bleakly out the window at the night sky as she's pressed up against the glass over and over by the force of the man taking her from behind. It's hard to tear my gaze away from her face of defeat to my father's.

When I do, the shock is so physical, I stumble. The backs of my knees hit the fountain edge, and I lose my balance. I fall back in slow motion, haunted by the face in the window.

I wake up the moment I hit the cold water.

My heart races in the silent bedroom. In the quiet, sleepy space, the rapid pace feels as out of place in my chest as the cozy, warm light in my childhood window. Cold sweat makes me feel like I really did fall into the fountain.

I lay my hand over my heart just to make sure it doesn't beat out of my chest. I don't need a photograph to see the face of the man in the window. I only need a mirror.

It hits me so violently, I just barely fling my torso off the edge of my bed before vomiting. My chest is so tight, this sick feeling deep in my bones. I can't breathe as I continue to heave.

The monster in the window with our omega wasn't my father.

It was me.

1. Play "Judgement Day" by Stealth