I ran as fast as I could. But the black cloud kept rushing at me. I suddenly felt like I was coursing through molasses. The darkness was gaining. Soon, it was on top of me. I thrashed around, but I couldn’t get out. Soon, images floated through it. My father as he was verbally lashed by my mother. The other way around. My dad slamming the door. My mother cussing her head off after him. Me, sobbing, hiding in the closet for three hours.

A hand reached down and pulled me above the blackness. It took three tries. It was him.
I was on a cloud. A river of gold ran to my right and purple trees (I loved that color). The boy gave me a look that said: This is just getting harder and harder.

“Thank you,” I gasped. I had a hard time harnessing my voice. Normally I couldn’t do it at all. I was a weird dreamer.

He grinned. His face was usually innocent (his eyes were pools of bright blue) but his smile made him look like one of those irresistible, bad boys from the movies. Too bad life wasn’t a film. You’re always assured a happy ending.

I smacked myself in the forehead. In letting myself space, the boy had left. Now I would just sit here until I woke up. Like I said, my way of dreaming is strange. It’s not like when the good part of your dream ends; you either stop or wake up all together. No, mine were on some kind of schedule. I always knew that I was screwed up. Not to mention my family.