I recently remembered a dream I had as a child, one that felt so real I still never sleep in the spare room at my grandmother's house. She used to tell me these stories, you see, about her younger sister Ava who died in that room when she was three years old. Not exactly the kind of bed time story a child wants to hear but my grandmother was a tad eccentric and ready to say everything she wasn't meant to at any given time.
From what she told me of Ava's sudden death (the wet wheezing breaths she struggled to take, how her skin was flushed but her lips were such a deathly blue) she had pneumonia. Something about the way she described her visits to Ava's bedside stuck with me all my life and well into every night I slept in the room where she once breathed her last.
Maybe this was why I dreamt I saw her in my bed one night, her eyes bloodshot, skin damp with sweat that left the bed sheets drenched where she grasped them in her tiny hands as she smiled serenely at me. I was frozen in place, my hand on the doorknob and my breath stuttering out of me like I was being sucker-punched again and again and again.
I remember the way Ava struggled to get out of my bed and how she tottered towards me, smiling that faint smile and holding out one blue-tinged hand. Some small part of my brain told me that if I held her hand we'd both be dead but she came to close to me that I could see each freckle on her face and count her eyelashes.
My grandmother shook me awake, said I'd been making loud choking sounds and when she came to check on me I was deathly pale. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was Ava trying to bring me with her. I just claimed I had no idea what happened and that I didn't want to sleep in that room any more.
It was strange how nobody questioned me on it, how my parents never asked me if I wanted to spend the night there again. Stranger still how sometimes when I walk past the spare room I swear I can still see Ava standing by the door with her little hand stretching out towards me, closer and closer each time.
From what she told me of Ava's sudden death (the wet wheezing breaths she struggled to take, how her skin was flushed but her lips were such a deathly blue) she had pneumonia. Something about the way she described her visits to Ava's bedside stuck with me all my life and well into every night I slept in the room where she once breathed her last.
Maybe this was why I dreamt I saw her in my bed one night, her eyes bloodshot, skin damp with sweat that left the bed sheets drenched where she grasped them in her tiny hands as she smiled serenely at me. I was frozen in place, my hand on the doorknob and my breath stuttering out of me like I was being sucker-punched again and again and again.
I remember the way Ava struggled to get out of my bed and how she tottered towards me, smiling that faint smile and holding out one blue-tinged hand. Some small part of my brain told me that if I held her hand we'd both be dead but she came to close to me that I could see each freckle on her face and count her eyelashes.
My grandmother shook me awake, said I'd been making loud choking sounds and when she came to check on me I was deathly pale. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was Ava trying to bring me with her. I just claimed I had no idea what happened and that I didn't want to sleep in that room any more.
It was strange how nobody questioned me on it, how my parents never asked me if I wanted to spend the night there again. Stranger still how sometimes when I walk past the spare room I swear I can still see Ava standing by the door with her little hand stretching out towards me, closer and closer each time.
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