Page 7 of Synodic

“How’s work going?” my mother asked, taking a sip of Cabernet, holding the stem of the glass with an effortless curve of her wrist and fingers. Her strawberry-blonde hair was styled in impeccable finger waves, and her slight features were carefully arranged, as always, so that nobody could see anything other than what she allowed them to. She was absolutely beautiful, dangerously clever, and had achieved great success with my father and their practice.

“Good,” I said, nervously thumbing the stacked pages of psychology journals on the marble counter. My parents kept their fingers on the pulse of evolving research and stayed up to date on exciting new developments in their field. They had even been featured in a few issues, but that was years ago, and I knew they were itching for another breakthrough study that would launch their practice back into the limelight.

I’m sure they would have a few questions if I told them about the hazy figure who visited me in my sleep. But I had questions of my own, and since the mist-shrouded man was incapable of providing me any answers, I would have to seek them elsewhere. Maybe these current dreams were somehow connected to my old night terrors. If I could just remember them, I was sure they would help connect a few missing dots.

“Do you remember the dreams I used to have?” I asked, finally spitting it out.

My mother’s perfect posture flinched, almost spilling a drop of rare vintage red. Recomposing herself and straightening the journal I had turned askew, she said, “I can’t say I recall exactly, but you used to scream and scream, and no amount of shaking would wake you.”

“There must be records. Maybe I could look through my old files?” I inquired hopefully. “Do you know where they are?”

“Why are you asking about this, darling?” Her azure eyes regarded me with a panicked interest. “Are they bothering you again?”

Since the dreams returned, I'd seen my parents multiple times and had plenty of opportunities to tell them, but I could never work up the nerve. Although, being asked point-blank was another matter. This was my chance, my opportunity to rid myself of the antagonizing dreams, ofhim.

I knew if I admitted everything to her right now, my parents would waste no time treating me. They would immediately resort to prescription meds, antipsychotics, judgmental looks, the works. It would be embarrassing and painful, but was it finally time to come clean?

“No.” It was a bald-faced lie. “I was just curious,” I said, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. My parents had a knack for unearthing one’s secrets; they did it for a living and were paid quite handsomely to do so. But in that moment, I knew I wasn’t ready to go back to that life. Not yet.

I remembered when this all started, those horrible pitch-black nights I thought would break my mind, and the unseen creatures I was sure would devour me. All the nights beforeheappeared had been absolutely unbearable. I couldn’t deny that.

I needed to see him again.

I tried to convince myself it was strictly to hear what he had to say and nothing more. But the spike in my pulse professed another reason, one I’d never admit to myself.

It seemed my subconscious was trying to tell me something, the least I could do was listen. Whatever the reason for these strange dreams, I was only closer to discovering it in my sleep, and every moment I was awake, the further I drifted from the truth.

I would give myself one more night, and if nothing useful turned up, I would confess everything to my mother.

She set her wine glass down and turned to me, her elfin features scrutinizing. “Keira Copeland, if something is going on, you need to tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” I said, cringing at the tone of my full name as if I were a child being scolded all over again. “Everything’s fine. In fact, me and Natalie—”

“Natalie?” My mom perked up. She’d developed a fond attachment to my roommate and loved asking after her. “What has she been up to?”

I filled her in on how busy Natalie was with school and her serious but unpaid internship.

Seeming pleased with the update, my mom changed the subject and asked, “How’s your boyfriend?”

“His name is Harlan, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

“That’s what you say about all of them, darling,” she said, analyzing me again.

I couldn’t begin to unpack what my mother was inferring with this new topic of conversation, but I guessed it wasn’t good.

I knew she was trying to help me in her own way, offering unsolicited advice about how my lack of commitment towards anything was unsettling. She theorized that I ran away from everything good in my life because I was afraid it would eventually end.

But how was that possible? How could I be afraid of endings when I found myself searching for the rays of a new dawn?

Lost in an endless eclipse, I suffered through another long day of unwanted psychological assessments. Whatever the secrets of my past, it was clear they were so disturbing my mother was protecting me from remembering them.

5

I’d made it home safely from my mother’s, or at least I thought I had. I now found myself in a forest that felt…wrong.Nothing like the glowing woods that reinvigorated the push and pull of my breathing.

How had I gotten here?

The empty air and lack of life whispered grave warnings against my skin. The heavy branches bowed over me like the wings of a fallen angel, hovering and closing in on its innocent victim. What little light leaked through illuminated the small clearing in shades of coal, ash, and iron.

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