They were always playing together. Sometimes it was as simple as running through the yard, or throwing a ball back and forth. Other times it was more complex, relying on elaborate toys or tools, and costumes that they’d make, and worlds that they’d design and linger in for days at a time. He had an imagination that mirrored her own, and the games that they played were built by this togetherness, never with any winner or loser, leader or follower. Their roles would often switch by the day, even, that neither might ever be left out, and this, she knew, was how they both preferred it.
He was unusually familiar to her, though perhaps that was because she’d grown alongside him, and had seen him change by the day, in everything from his clothes to his hair to his height. How long they’d known one another exactly, she wasn’t sure. He’d lived next door for as long as she could remember—she thought she recalled playing in the sandbox with him, before they could even speak—and she was certain that they were the same age, perhaps even within a day. He was perfect in that way; he even looked like her. They both had brown eyes, both had big ears, both had that pasty skin that made them burn terribly in the sunlight. Their differences had been birthed all by events that she could recall; she was there when he’d chipped his tooth biting into the rock (it was still chipped) and he’d been there when she’d punctured her knee from that loose piece of the fence (she still had the scar). They were inseparable like that. They played so often together that he even invaded her dreams. They were both six now, and every night for six years, when she’d drift off into sleep, she’d find him again, and their adventures would continue. It was always daytime in her dreams, too, and so it would feel like they’d never even left her front yard. Their games often continued seamlessly, their wild characterizations persisting into the night, and when she’d wake the next day, he’d still be there, ready to continue, as though privy to the workings of her mind while she’d slept, and so never was a moment wasted in having to explain new rules or new ideas. It didn’t even matter who it was; even in her own dreams, if he were to devise some new construction, or think up some plot, he’d be aware of it in real life too the very next day, as strange as it seemed. She thought it might have something to do with the walls. They were neighbors, and like all other homes on the block, their houses touched. The wall behind her in her bedroom, she had learned, was the wall to the left of his bed in his own room. The wall was hollow, and every night and morning they would whisper through it, giggling, exchanging and confirming their schemes. Their talks tended to be brief, but she enjoyed them all the same, even though the conversations always felt fragmented to her, as her mind was either plagued by the nonsense of impending sleep or the confusion brought on by the morning, and he sounded the same in this regard. Their enthusiasm was often opposite, though; he was a night goer, she’d learned. He could talk for quite a while when she was on the cusp of falling asleep, and often, his suggestions played out in her dreams instead. When she would wake, however, he would often be much too groggy in turn, a far cry from how she felt in the mornings, when the prospect of the day’s adventures invigorated her. It was one of the few ways in which they were different, really. Which wasn’t to say that the boy didn’t have his oddities elsewise. She knew his family to be strange, though she’d never met them. When the sky would darken outside, and she would be called in to sleep, she would hear his mother calling within minutes, usually to eat, and his meals could be quite bizarre--sometimes, she’d hear his mother offering him breakfast foods. He was also a bit riskier with his play. Many of their injuries over the years—including his tooth and her knee—had been a result of his carelessness. He was always rowdy in the morning, after he’d woken up a bit, and often, she’d just barely be finishing her own breakfast when she would spot him at the glass sliding door to her lawn, pounding on it for her to come out and play, to participate in some wildly dangerous activity. He often acted as though he had no restrictions to him, climbing the tree in her yard very high (and practically begging her to do the same), running and sliding about even when it would rain, and even going off to explore outside the yard, though she would always refuse to accompany him, despite his utter indignation at her rejections. It was strange, really, how differently he behaved in person to how he was in her head. When they would play together in her dreams, he would always be more reserved, not nearly as rambunctious and never wanting to wander out of sight. Sometimes this actually upset her a bit. It was as though she were trying to change him while she slept, and she felt as though that wasn’t how friends should be. It was for that reason that when she would wake, she would never tell him explicitly of what her dreams entailed. Thankfully, it didn’t matter much; he always at least was aware of the games that they’d played in her sleep, after all, and so there was no point in discussing things further. And so they played. They played constantly, lost in their own world when she was awake, and then confined to another while she slept. All of the day’s events seemed to revolve around their actions together; she left him only when called in to eat or when it was time to bathe, and he occupied her thoughts even during these absences. She often felt bad during these stretches, for she could hardly fathom his boredom when left alone. She thought that she might know something of the feeling, though, as it was not so foreign to her while she slept. In her own dreams, her friend would sometimes vanish for one reason or another, for similarly dull tasks, and she would be left to sit in the yard alone, whispering under her breath to some half-animated doll, or perhaps to dig for a treasure on her own, at a much slower pace. The existence of such mundane occurrences in her dreams felt like a form of punishment. If she preferred some dull, frightened boy in her imagination, it seemed, then it was going to be as authentic as possible. This was always weighing on her mind, and it was for this reason that one day, at his sincerest urging, she offered to take him up on one of his perilous excursions. He had asked her to go into her other neighbor’s yard, the yard to the left of her home. There was a garden over there, he insisted, which he had seen when peering through the gaps of the wooden spikes that comprised the fence. He had spent the day—and indeed, a good chunk of her dream the previous night—prying away at one of the planks, and it was loose enough now, he claimed, that they could pass through it. He wanted to pick the flowers with her. A single yard over, she reasoned, was not so bad, even though she knew that the house next door belonged to a stern old woman who would not be pleased to find them on her property. She would go for a few minutes, and then she would not feel so guilty about the way that she changed him in her sleep. It would be like taking a break from him, that was all. And so she followed along after him, only an inch behind as they sneaked from one yard to the other, her eye on him continuously. He was dressed as though to blend in with the tall grass, wearing a striped green shirt and khaki pants, which looked very ugly with his bright red hat. He wore his usual mischievous grin though, the one that never appeared in her dreams, that she sometimes had some odd reverence for, as she did here. She herself had on a white dress that did little to protect her legs from the itchy leaves, though she persevered nonetheless. Whatever her initial reluctance, the assortment of flowers that greeted her upon following him calmed her immediately. The garden was vast and full of variety. It consisted mostly of weeds, tall blades of grass that obstructed her view somewhat, but speckled within these slivers of green were the likes of which she’d only seen in her picture books; daffodils, dandelions, tulips, all manner of pretty things. She lost herself easily in the scene, and it wasn’t until her companion had turned and presented her with a large sunflower that she even remembered his presence. She took it, and then together they started in their collecting, making a game of it, as they always did. For how long they maneuvered throughout the grass, she wasn’t sure, though it didn’t take long for her fists to be filled with the most colorful treasures that the garden had to offer. They’d decided to take turns in presenting their findings to one another, making sure to never the show the same ones, and time seemed to slip by as they did this, until it grew difficult to discern the differences in their collection. It was at this point that she heard a call, in a voice that she recognized as her mother’s, telling her that it was time for bed. Not a moment later, another voice echoed, from a bit further away, which she knew was for him, and within seconds they’d ran through the garden, dropping their prizes as they went and pushing themselves back through the fence in singular, swift motions. She then watched him run off, through the gate that separated their own yards, and only when he’d disappeared from view completely did she open her own door and enter her home. That night, after she’d brushed her teeth and gotten in her pajamas, she crawled into her bed and waited for her parents to say goodnight and shut off her lights. The moment the room was dark, she inched herself up to the wall behind her. “That was fun,” she whispered, yawning, and she wasn’t lying; it had been exciting, going somewhere and doing something new. “It was,” her friend responded, and though his voice was slightly slurred, she could hear the excitement in it. “We’ll go back soon,” he added. She laid there in silence after this, waiting to drift off, as usual. It typically happened very soon for her, but for some reason, tonight she found herself fidgeting a bit; there was a question that she’d wanted to ask him since their venture in the garden. “Are you awake?” she whispered, her lips practically touching the drywall. “I am,” he said, and he certainly sounded it. “Do you have dreams?” she asked him. “Of course,” he whispered back. “Am I ever in them?” “Every night,” he said, and she smiled, though this made her wonder something. “Am I ever different in them?” she asked. “Different than how I am when we play for real?” “Not usually,” he replied, after a moment of thought. “You were last night though.” “I was?” she asked, eager to hear more. “How? What did you dream?” “I dreamed you went into the next yard over with me,” he told her. “And that we picked flowers together.”
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About MeVekin87 is the author of the Albus Potter Series, a 7-book continuation of the J.K Rowling's Harry Potter books. The Things I Write While You're Asleep |
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