My younger sister sat on a couch in the room below and glanced up just as the house hit her in the face. I rolled her limp body over until she awakened with no permanent injuries. As I tried to show my father's injustice to our family, they took his side against me, and I walked away from my family, alienated and hurt.
This was only the end of a dream that also encompassed my missing a debate tournament because I took too long packing while Leah Worrel was able to still go. I also went away somewhere and traveled with four baseball players who were kicked off their team or something similar.
One of these baseball players was my lover and had a familiar face that I have seen time and time again in my dreams as my husband, boyfriend, savior. Like all dream faces, his is non-descript, vague, and blurry, seeming both precise and recognizable yet evading all attempts of my recalling his exact features.
He does have some features that I can describe perfectly, his hair and his manner. Eyebrow to chinbone length hair, ash blonde, well-groomed and smooth and falling perfectly to the side and back of his face. And his eyes, downcast and unassuming.
In every dream in which he has shown himself, he and I are betrothed, married, required to be together because of some social necessity. However, also in every dream, we accept it, and a strange tingle of duty and quiet, patience acceptance settles my stomach.
It is strange, to want to see this mixture of duty and silent sweetness, to be relieved and allured when he visits me again in the veil of my dreams.