It's raining on Wednesday when I wake. The sky is dark. I can hear the patter of rain dropping against the ceiling as I take deep breaths in and out, trying to calm the present storm stirring in me.

Tonight's dream (nightmare) was different from the other ones I've had. It was the same scene--me watching the light die out, falling into the pitless oblivion, a hand capturing me in its warm grasp, eyes as bright as the morning sky--but there was something more to it, something more sinister.

It was metal that I heard and it was deafeningly loud. There was hissing right before the car slammed into us and I could make out something faintly red. Like the color of spilled blood, but more lustrous. And it glared down at us right before we flew.

I still can't make out what it was.

My head pounds, though, and I'm crying from the pain of it. I bring my hand up to my mouth to muffle up the noise and sneak a peek at the digital clock beside me bed--it reads 12:49. Four hours tonight. A new record, yay.

Alfonzo sleeps next to me silently and I try not to wake him as I get out of bed. The rain continues to pour as I walk into the bathroom, running the faucet and washing my face off as I try to calm myself, try to bring myself back to reality.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

If I had to guess, I would say that the crimson color in my dream (nightmare) were eyes. I'm almost certain that it was a pair of them and they looked down on us as though we were scum, useless parasites that just got in its way. I couldn't tell what they were connected to, though; I only saw the pair of eyes then I was flying across the freeway and it all turned fuzzy as I fell into the usual void.

I turn the faucet off and glance at my reflection. I'm pale, my eyes rimmed with exhaustion and tears. My cheeks are blotchy and the nasty scar that seems to haunt me every time I look at it burns in the horrible lighting of the bathroom. I reach a hand up, hesitantly touch it and another tear falls.

I try to wonder what it would be like--to be free of all these tainted thoughts and broken dreams. Wonder what it would be like to think of him and feel happy, to feel my heart soar instead of clench in my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to do anything but cry.

But I know, as I stare at the ugly scar, that no matter how much I try to escape, I'll always be a prisoner of this never ending nightmare.

✦

There's a slight chill in the air as I take a seat on the swing located on the porch. It creaks underneath my weight, old and rusty as it swings beneath me. I yawn, tugging my sweater sleeves down over my hands to provide me with more warmth. I listen to the rain sliding down the roof of the house and I stare at the truck in the drive.

It's idling in the gravel, quiet and still as rain pours over it. The scratch from last Thursday is still prominent and I can feel my lips quirking even though I shouldn't be reveling in the fact that I assaulted a military vehicle.

Whatever, I think, they can just buff it out if they want to. It's just a surface wound.

The wind picks up speed and I'm hit with a few droplets of rain as I curl up on the swing, knees bent and arms crossed over them. My head rests on my forearms.

My eyelids grow heavy after minutes of sitting in the calming presence of the night, my mind emotionally drained as I try to forget about the nightmare from earlier.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed, kid?"

I jump, gasping and I'm wide awake suddenly, clenching at my chest in hope that it will quell the beating of my pounding heart. My hair falls into my face and I would have been on the floor of the porch had I not gripped that the chains connecting the swing to the ceiling. I glare at the assailant.

Ron stands five feet in front of me, teetering off the edge of the porch-underneath the roof so he's protected from the rain. His hair is slightly damp and I can see droplets sliding down his tan skin. I sigh.

"Ah, gramps," I greet.

He grunts. "Do not try to evade the question, Eleanor. You are supposed to be slumbering, are you not?"

"Sure," I say.

Ron narrows his eyes. "Then how come I have discovered you on the porch, not sleeping as you should be."

I raise a brow. My relationship with Ron is--well, it's testy for the most part.

After the whole keying incident, he seems to have warmed up to me (at least, a little) and doesn't send me glares that would lead to my untimely death should he act upon it. And I don't try to anger him anymore--at least, not a lot since I truly do not wish to die at the hands of that man. So, there's like this silent agreement that we have--stay out of each other's way. And it's worked. So far.

But he's here, right now, invading my space and disobeying the silent agreement. I'd say it's unjust, but the company is not unwelcome.

So, I say, "Can't sleep. Too many thoughts. Why are you awake?"

Ron furrows his eyebrows, takes another step forward then stops. I see him look towards the swing for a brief moment before he turns to stare at something else beyond my shoulder.

He shrugs. "I do not require many hours of recharge."

So vague. I've noticed that Ron speaks like he's from a different world or something. It's very uncanny when it happens but I try not to dwell on it too much considering he'd probably punch me three ways to Friday if I asked about it.

"Must be nice," I comment offhandedly. I pat the space beside me. "Might as well take a seat if you've nothing better to do than besides check up on me like some creepy stalker."

Ron grunts. "I was merely curious as to why you disregarded your obvious need for recharge in turn for sitting in this slaggin' rain." He takes a seat, anyway.

"Rain's nice," I say with a humored smile. I decide to ignore the whole "slaggin'" part because Ron says weird stuff all the time. I pull my knees up to me. "It's peaceful."

"You do not seem too serene as of right now," he points out.

I hate how observant he is, honestly. Stupid military and their stupid observational requirements.

I shrug. "I suppose one could say I'm not."

"What happened, kid?"

My mind shoots back to the dream almost immediately and I picture the crimson eyes in my head, scalding and so hateful. I feel my heart clench in my chest and I glance at Ron. He's a stranger to me, someone who rubbed me the wrong way when we met; someone who angered me to my very core; someone who looks like they could kill me without lifting a finger.

Ron scares me, still. There's still a hesitant part of me that screams not to trust him, not to allow him close to me because it'll end up badly.

But he's here now. And I need to get this off my chest.

"When I go to sleep," I tell him, "I have these dreams. They're vivid and usually the same thing, but tonight's--tonight's was different." I gulp, pick at a thread on my sweater, and I'm very aware of Ron's eyes on my face but I don't look at him. "I know this is crazy and that you'll probably tell my mom I'm a lunatic--but I could have swore, that there were eyes looking down on me in my dream." I curl up, sighing out, trying to ignore the shudder of fear that reverberated through me. "And they w-were--they were a bright red."

Ron doesn't ask about any specifics of my dreams and for that I'm grateful. He stays silent for a moment but it isn't unpleasant as we sit on the prick, rain pouring down in a shower.

I can see that he's tense though and I wonder what that's about. Perhaps he's regretting his decision to speak to an emotionally unstable teenage girl when he has better things to be doing with his life. (What that is? I have no clue.)

Or maybe he's debating on whether or not he should answer me or call out my parents so Mom can go into her crazy worrier mode.

"I apologize," Ron responds slowly as though speaking to a frightened deer, "that you are haunted with dreams as such." There's an awkwardness to his tone, as though he's never comforted anyone before, but I can tell he's sincere.

"Nightmares aren't uncommon." I chuckle lightheartedly, finally glancing at him. Ron stares down at me with those almost-glowing sapphire eyes and the pain is fleeting but still there as I turn away. "Everyone gets them once in awhile, Ron."

"But your mother--she has informed your father and I that these nightmares, of sorts, have been haunting your subconscious for a couple of months now." Ron furrows his brows. "I feel as though that is something that does not happen commonly. Is it?" He sounds genuinely curious, like he doesn't actually understand how dreams work.

My face scrunches in confusion. "Nightmare after a traumatic experience happen all the time. It's a common symptom of PTSD."

"PTSD?"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder?" I ask in uncertainty. "Do you know what that is? I feel as though you should know about something like this?" My eyes take him in, the way his jaw clenches when he hears the confusion in my voice. I feel as though I'm missing some crucial piece of information but I haven't a clue what it could be.

Ron nods after a moment. "Ah, yes. PTSD. I understand now." He looks at me. "You dream of the night your brother perished, do you not? That is the nightmare in which you were explaining, yes?"

"I--yes." My heart clenches in my chest at the bluntness of his question. I want to curl in until I'm nothing but an empty space but Ron levels me with his eyes. My throat is tight when I say, "Yeah, I--I dream about the a-accident."

Ron grunts. He says nothing more for a moment and when he does decide to speak up again, it's soft, almost unheard in the patter of rain.

"During a battle, I lost a comrade," he tells me. "Designation Jazz. He thought he could take on someone bigger than him." Ron gives a humorless chuckle, deep and gravelly. "He was terminated no two ticks later."

"I--" I don't know what to say. What does one say when a man (whom I thought was a hard ass and colder than the Arctic) opens up to you? I fiddle with my sweater and say, "I'm sorry," because I am. I am sorry he lost a companion in battle. It must have been hard, especially if he experienced it first hand.

Ron grumbles, "Do not apologize for something that you had no control of."

"You literally just did the same thing." I raise an eyebrow.

"I--well." Ron looks thrown off for a moment. I suppress a small grin. "I suppose I did, didn't I?"

I nod. My face turns solemn. "What did you do? To get past the death of your friend?"

The atmosphere is thick with a newfound tension and I almost regret asking the question but I need answers. Some help on how to get past these nightmares and this whole accident because nothing works and I'm about three more sleepless nights away from just giving it all up. Just throwing in the flag and calling it quits.

Ron stares at my face for a long moment, brows furrowed and eyes shining in the dark of the night. I fidget under his gaze and rest my head on my knees, staring at a chipped piece of wood in the walls exterior.

"Losing comrades and friends is a common part of war," he confesses. "After so many years, you learn to become accustomed to the fact that anyone could perish any day. And while I did mourn for Jazz, I have adapted quickly. I am a warrior first, and a friend second, after all."

I frown. "That doesn't--how do you live like that?!"

And I can feel myself swell up with a bubble of emotions, all of them rising to the surface like an erupting volcano. My eyes well up and my breath is shallow and I feel so sorry for the man sitting beside me. To live a life so cold and lonely must be exhausting. Must be so, so sad.

A hand falls on my head, secure and warm. "Do not weep for me, kid. I apologize for speaking so bluntly and being inconsiderate of your emotions regarding loss, but do not feel sorry for me. This has been my life for many vorns. It is nothing to shed tears over."

"I don't--" I swipe angrily at my leaking eyes. "I'm not crying, you asshole." I hate the fact that I am and that I'm crying in front of him, no less. I probably look like a pathetic little girl in his eyes and he's only comforting me out of shameless pity.

Ron's smile is so ghostly it's almost not there. "Sure, kid. And I'm an alien." He removes the hand from my head.

"I hate you," I tell him but my breathing lets up a little and I feel better as I stare up at him. My mind reels back. I ask, "What in hell is a 'vorn'?"

Ron tenses like he's been caught sticking his hand in the cookie jar. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. He avoids my gaze and sighs through his nose, mumbling something that I can't quite make out.

"Military slang," is what he supplies me in short, clipped words.

"Military slang?" I repeat with a raised brow.

Ron nods mutely.

"So, say I ask my dad about this so called 'vorn'. Will he understand what it means?" I question with doubt lacing my tone.

"Obviously." He finally turns back to me, rolling his eyes. "Unless your father has suddenly caught a case of amnesia."

"The hostility is not needed." I lift my head and point a finger at him. "I was merely asking a question."

"You believed me to be lying."

I shrug. "Okay, sure. But you say a lot of weird things, Ron." I side-eye him to make sure I'm not about to get punched three ways to Friday.

Ron just grunts. "There is nothing wrong in the way I word my sentences." He sounds defensive.

"No," I agree quickly, "there's not. Just some weirdness pushed into some of them."

A huff. "I do not comprehend why I am wasting my breath on a subject so meaningless."

I wave him off. "Calm down, gramps. I won't talk about it again. Jeez." I roll my eyes then focus my senses onto the calming pattern of rain.

When I first came outside it was initially to get a good cry out while no one was listening, to let everything go for awhile. I hadn't counted on running into Ron at all but the unexpected conversation was not one I didn't enjoy. If anything, I feel better than I would have had I been alone.

"You're a good listener, Ron," I tell him as a thank you. My eyelids grow heavy as I do so and I lay my head on my knees once more, content to fall asleep in the early morning, rain pouring around me.

"And you need to go inside, Eleanor," he retaliates, pushing at my shoulder to get me up. "I'm certain your bed would be more comfortable than this wooden swing."

"Alfonzo will wake up and bark," I murmur, too far gone to fully comprehend anything anymore. "He doesn't mind when I leave but he hates when I come back." The words come out slurred and sluggish but I can't worry about it.

Ron curses quietly but it's a distant sound in my ears. My eyes are closed and I'm warm, Ron's side pressing against my own aiding the comfort. I sigh contentedly and before I know it, the rain dies out into nothingness and slumber greets me like an old friend.