Page 37 of Bullied Pregnant Mate

It’s not safe, Jenks! It’s not safe for you in town. Please, listen to me, please!

She was almost in tears. It was the only time I ever saw her cry.

Why don’t you go and record another song or something? You’d rather do that than talk to me.

Tears kept pouring down her face.

My music is the only thing I have, Jenkins. It’s not safe for me in town, either. Do you think I like being cut off from all my friends, my family? My sister?

Sowhy, Mom?

She wouldn’t answer, and I ran from the house.

The dream switches to a crowded dance floor, where terrible music throbs to an insane, frenzied beat. The sound is intolerable, and I feel drunk. So drunk, I can’t stand up.

That is how I’ve always dealt with my problems.

I try to find someone I know, but every time I turn around, all I see are unfamiliar faces. They twist into grotesque shapes, mouths too wide, eyes glittering and dark.

Get out of here!

I run as fast as I can, not caring about the direction, just running. Within seconds, I pass through the familiar sliding doors of my house out onto the deck. I see the turntable in front of me, and the thick crowd of people on the grass below.

No, no, no…

The screams rip through the air, further down near the forest. Fear flashes through me, and cold sweat breaks out across my body.

Go! Go now and help them!

But I can’t, just like I couldn’t on that night. I’m frozen in place, useless to my pack and all my friends.

“Jenks!”

I hear someone calling my name, but fight against it. I’m still frozen in the dream. I want to run, but I don’t know how to.

“Jenks, wake up. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, I feel a cool, soothing weight on my forehead, and a pale silver glow penetrates the darkness of the dream. Slowly, I open my eyes to see Alisa standing over me.

“Alisa?” I whisper.

“Yes, Jenks. I’m here. It was just a nightmare.”

“It sure was,” I mutter, sitting up. “I can barely remember it now.”

“Well, I helped a bit with that. It’s dangerous for you to forget your nightmares entirely because your subconscious hasto process the information at some point. I put it away behind some happier memories, so you can rest a little now. It will come back, though.”

“You can do that?” I ask, astonished. “Control dreams, I mean?”

“Yes,” she says with a little smile. “Among other things.”

Suddenly, I realize that her hand is still on my head, gently playing with my hair. The feel of her fingers lightly scratching my scalp is wonderful, sending tingles running through me.

“Does that feel good?” she asks. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” I say sharply. “I mean, yes… I mean—”

“I understand, Jenks,” she says, smiling. “Most people forget how much tension is carried in the muscles across the scalp. It’s one of the reasons people like having their hair played with.”

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