Under the Silver Moonlight

The summer I turned thirteen, a lot of things changed. What gifts I had became that much more pronounced in more ways than one.  Since childhood, I knew more about the world around me than most will ever know. I took the simple things for granted. Except for one terrorizing year, my existence with the things beyond had been mildly annoying at worst, amusing at best. In my innocence, I had been lucky. But the gifts that coursed through my life were potent, and soon I started thinking of them more of a curse than blessings.

My elder sister suffered from night terrors. She would toss and turn in her sleep, cry out for help and when it was really bad, woke up gasping for air or screaming for help.  I always was ready to jump out of my bed to console her; to hold her against my bosom and soothe her back to sleep. I couldn’t begin to imagine the things she suffered in dreamland and all I wanted to do was protect her.

I remember it was a hot, muggy night, rather odd for Southern California. I thought it odd that my sister made sure the door was locked tight that night and I was beyond mortified when she slipped out of her nightgown, then stood there, nude as the day she came into this earth. I stared at her, eyes wide. She seemed to glow slightly under the moonlight and not only did I find her stripping naked to go to bed shocking, to see her grooming habits flustered me.  She looked down at herself and laughed. “What?”

“You…shave, why?!”

She paused for a moment and shrugged. “Its cleaner,” she climbed into bed and stretched. “The sex is amazing and well, it has been too fucking hot to have a bush anyway. I mean seriously, don’t you feel hot and sweaty going full fuzz?”

My sister was eight years older than me and spoke with a sage wisdom I was yet to know.  I could only nod slightly.

“But that’s okay; you’re still a kid anyway.”

Again I nodded, making sure to stare at the fast spinning blades of our ceiling fan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop being a prude. It’s just hair!” She laughed and threw a pillow at me. “Besides, it’s too fucking hot to sleep with clothes on anyway. “Try it! The door’s locked and dad won’t be able to walk in on us.”

I shook my head.

“What, cat got your tongue? Try it! It’s nothing dirty and totally natural.”

With a sigh I climbed out of bed, tossed off my shirt, stepped out of my pajamas and hopped back into bed.

“You seriously sleep with a bra on? Take it off, that’s got to be damn uncomfortable!”

I stared at her in disbelief, got back out of bed, stripped naked and jumped back into bed. I covered myself to my neck and she simply laughed.

“Trust me, sis… you’ll never sleep with clothes, ever, ever again. It is so liberating.” She stretched out again, rolled onto her stomach and wrapped the sheet around herself as if it were a half-discarded toga.

I laid there, uncomfortably for what felt like an eternity. I found myself staring out at the moon and quickly lost myself in my thoughts. I’d always been nocturnal by nature and being forced to stick to a diurnal schedule often screwed with me, making me an insomniac. I simply couldn’t sleep at night time unless I was exhausted.

It wasn’t long before I could hear my sister’s moaning. I tried to tune it out as lately she’d cry out in her sleep and quiet down. Sure enough, it got quiet but she started tossing and turning. I focused my attentions on her, wishing, hoping, that my desire to soothe her would somehow be felt and she’d calm down. Perhaps it was coincidence but it wasn’t too much longer after my silly ‘jedi trick’ and she stopped. I could see her shoulders relax, her breathing become more languid.

Again, I looked up at the moon. And as usual, when it came between God and me, I started to talk. I was raised Catholic but I hated going to church. I hated the concept that prayer was the only way to communicate with Him and it bothered me even more so that God, had to be a man.  I often found myself talking to Him as if he were a She and a long, lost friend. Out of guilt I’d tell myself I was simply speaking to the Virgin Mary.  I could feel the fringes of exhaustion tugging at me (I had been up for almost three days) as I whispered my nightly conversation to the moon.

“If only I could see what bothered her, then maybe I could help her, don’t you think, Mother?” I yawned and nestled against my pillow. “I can only imagine the horror… its not fair, my Lady, that she suffers so much when one should be the most protected and comfortable….I want to help… I just don’t know how.”

The moon shone bright above me and the damp heat of the air was making me sweat.  I could feel rivulets of dampness forming in my armpits and a pool beginning to grow under my breasts and against my lower back.  Heat grew between my thighs with each step from where the skin brushed against skin as I walked. Somewhere in the back of my head I could remember my sister’s excuse for shaving and I laughed. I may have to try that someday if I ever found the courage.  My lungs ached when I stopped to take in a deep breath as the hot air did nothing to help my lack of breath. The only comfort I felt was that of mud between my toes.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, peeling the white nightgown off my hot skin.

I found myself walking along an embankment of a river I had seen many times before, though from where, I couldn’t fathom.  My steps were brisk, but without true path. Over the last few years my dreams often started like this; I found myself somewhere and strange, fantastical things happened. Sometimes I could fly, at others I could manipulate my surroundings…sometimes I was an active participant and at others, a mere observer. Always, though, everything felt real. I could touch things. Smell things. Taste things, even. It was so real, that I had to develop tricks to know when I was awake and when I was asleep.

As I pondered these things, I was filled with a sense of urgency that took my breath away. I let out a small cry as I tripped over the material of my gown as I broke into a run. I stumbled on my feet as I gathered the material in my hands.  Hurry.
“I’m trying!” I yelled, answering a voice that only I heard. I noticed that the earth was still. There was no sound. No animal anywhere, not even a breeze. This frightened me and I continued on my path as fast as I could. The lack of pain from my bouncing breasts told me this was another dream, but my mind, no, my very soul, told me this was real. Very, very real.
At a distance I could see the white of another nightgown running toward the riverbank. I couldn’t see discerning features despite the bright moonlight. Behind her, there were people, men, chasing the young woman. They had something in their hands. Clubs, maybe, a shotgun, perhaps—I couldn’t tell. I could, however, feel the terror and tension in the air.
I redoubled my efforts.
I could now hear the wind in my ears.  As I neared the cluster of people I saw one of the men stop, lift the tubular thing in hand up to his shoulder. I could feel my heart at my throat and I opened my mouth to yell but no sound came. In the movies there is always a flash, a puff of smoke and a deafening blast. Here, I saw the muzzle move, the man move back a little from the shock and the white figure pitch forward onto her knees, then the floor face first.
I stood there, horrified.

I could see her claw herself toward the embankment lift herself to one knee and then fall over.  

The men stood there for a moment, and then the tallest quickened his pace to where she fell.  My trance was broken and I began to move quickly, but quietly. Instead of moving toward them, I headed toward the river. I could feel the thick mud envelope my foot as I began my descent. The other slipped. I landed on my knee and broke my fall with a hand. I had to get over there…and do what exactly?

This was a dream. I could control my dream. I tried to envision myself turn into a man or a monster, stop this massacre. I couldn’t.  It seems like I was a passive participant on a film directed by someone else.

I fought against the mud that slowed me down. This, perhaps, saved my dream self as I rounded the bend as the man with indiscernible features shoved the injured woman into the river. I heard him mumble something about not wasting more shells on the filthy whore and that the water would take care of her.  I held my breath as I watched him leave.

The river rapids pulled and tugged at the woman. Her long, dark hair wrapped about her face as she was sucked further into the watery embrace.  She was pulled under once, and then she came back up. Her hair had been washed off and I could see the terror in her face.  The water around her had a slight pink tinge and again she was pulled under.

“My goodness, Mary, she’s alive!” I gasped and began to fight against the mud. I crawled, pushed and pulled toward her.

I stood at the shore for what felt like an eternity, trying to see where she would bob up. Drowning, like gunshots, it seemed, was drastically less flashy than what Hollywood tried to tell me.  “Mother, help me! Lady, guide me!”  I prayed as I waded into the water.

“It is not her time yet.”

My head snapped toward the voice. On the opposite embankment was a child, perhaps no more than seven, clad in a white to her shins.

“It is not her time yet,” she repeated, one arm pointing to where the woman washed up against a rock. She clung to it but quickly slipped under. “You know what to do.”

I nodded and quickly – as safely as I could, climbed onto a rock then jumped onto another. I found myself on the rock she had slipped under. My heart skipped a beat as looked into the dark waters hoping to see anything at all. At first, I could see nothing but then I saw it; a flash of white. I got to my knees and dove for it. I clutched at it and pulled. I pulled her forearm above the water and I could feel myself slipping. The icy waters were numbing my hands but I would not, could not, let go. I pulled again, bracing myself with my knees. I kicked and pushed, slicing my foot against another rock. That’s fine… that’s fine, just let me get her head out of the water. Virgin mother, give me strength!

I gave one final push and pulled her above the water. Her head bobbed back, her blue lips hung open.  Her eyes rolled at the back of her head.

“Wake up!” I slapped her, hard. I could hear her groaning. “Come on, fight for me. Wake up!” I could hear her whimper, moan.

I woke up with a start, the sheets clinging to me like a second skin. I looked around disoriented, the haunting sounds of a drowning woman still thundering in my ears.  My heart skipped a beat as my eyes fell on the mirror that hung on our closet door. There stood the girl from my dream, her arm pointing to something at a distance. I could see the words forming on her lips it’s not her time yet.

My eyes followed the direction in which she was pointing. Immediately I tore the sheet off me and jumped out of bed. I fell on my knee, hard and slammed my face against the opposing bed.  I pulled myself onto the mattress and reached toward my sister. She was moaning in her sleep again, but unlike before the sound was a deep, ragged groan. She couldn’t breathe.

“Wake up, damn it.” I pulled her toward me; her head fell back onto my shoulder. Tears stung in my eyes as I couldn’t help but think back on that horrid dream I had. My sister’s mouth hung open, her lips started to tinge blue.  I shook her, but she wouldn’t respond. “Wake up, wake up!”

I slapped her.

I could see the shock and the recognition seep into her face as she gasped for breath. Seconds later she burst into tears. We held onto each other as we sobbed our tears and sweat mingling.

“I was drowning,” she said at long last. “I was drowning and couldn’t breathe.”