Dream of Me by Kat Rose (most popular novels of all time txt) 📖

I had a dream about him, the first one I’d had in weeks. I was doing so well, too.
I dreamt I woke up and he was sleeping next to me, which for some reason prompted me to softly giggle although that simple act in itself is dangerous. I leaned over to kiss his cheek and whisper, “Good morning”, but before I could speak I noticed how short his hair was. I had never seen it that short. Examining the rest of his face, I saw that something, I’m not sure what, was indeed off about his face. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration, as if planning mass destruction in his sleep was a daily occurrence. While still examining him quietly, he opened his eyes and stared back at me.
Those were not his eyes.
I gasped in shock, waking for real this time. Dreams are eternally confusing and misleading, and yet I find myself thinking about them for the rest of the day after waking.
My name is Kat, and I dream much too often for the average person, let alone high school student. Sometimes several of them strike me at once, as if I were dreaming five different scenarios at the same time, the variety of scenes playing out in my head in strange projections. Upon waking, however, I have the fun time of trying to piece each of these separate images together and ultimately try to figure out the significance of them.
The harsh reality is, though, most of the time they mean absolutely nothing, and if they happen to mean anything at all, I am unable to discover what that is until it’s too late.
Doctors have told me that dreaming so much is unnatural, and should have stopped after my brain finished growing in a certain area- which was to be done when I was about twelve, thirteen years of age. And yet….still the dreams come.
There is something I know for sure though. Something I have learned what my mother would call “the hard way” over the years, my stubborn self refusing to accept what my subconscious was trying to tell me.
The dreams never lie.
It seems, with this latest vision, I am off on my next venture, my never ending project: discovering the meaning of the strange messages I receive in my sleep.

The best way to wake up is to feel the sun on your face, in your hair. Usually it gives me a nice, warm happy feeling right when I open my eyes. This time, however, I only felt cold. Carefully I stood up; stretched out my sore shoulder, the one I slept on, and made my way over the huge window overlooking the river behind my house. My backyard ran into the woods, with few trails and pathways slinking in between the huge trees. The forest had its regular calming effect as I stared out at the pink sunrise. The sun was making a late appearance, it was nearly 8 AM. As I pressed my palm against the glass, fingers splayed, I began to feel the warmth seep into my skin. My racing pulse slowed, and my quiet, slow breathing took over.
Why had I dreamt about him so clearly, when I hadn’t seen him in three years? It made no sense. But I knew my mind was trying to tell me something, as it always is. The dreams are always strange messages, sometimes potentially dangerous, others light and almost comical.
The boy I had seen in my mind was one I had left three years ago with the intention of never seeing again. By the time I had left him, I wanted to erase his face from mind. He was the first and last man to ever break my heart. My friends had warned me about him, my parents had forbidden me to see him, and my sister even refused to speak his name, as if mentioning him was as violent as a curse word. And yet I resisted, claiming I would prove them all wrong.
Now I knew better. If it were up to me, the unspeakable Jason Lance would stay in the past. But it seemed the dreams had different plans.

I was young, I was naïve, I had dreams, and I thought I had found someone to fulfill those dreams. Jason Lance had caught my eye since the moment I had met him in homeroom freshman year of high school. Tall, golden blond hair, and sparkling green-blue eyes; add a dazzling full smile to that and I was lost. We only had two classes together that year, but I always found myself thinking about him, scribbling his name down in hearts on my notebook…or even worse, just flat out staring at him during the allotted times I could. Fifteen years old, and I was sure I had found my soulmate. How could I have been so stupid? I still don’t have an answer to that. Fifteen years old, and I had my first real crush. And crushed, I would be.

I remember the first time he smiled at me, in line for our pictures that would appear later on that year in the yearbook. I was in the middle of a conversation with this girl who, for some reason, had this strange obsession with owls. Like an angel from above, he (gladly) interrupted and gave me my first sighting of that beautiful smile. Introducing himself, he shook my hand, and all I could think was…don’t you dare faint! Because I was pretty darn close.  I could barely think past that smile. Holy cow! Hesitantly I told him my name and gave him a small smile in response, completely baffled as to why this boy, this absolutely gorgeous guy, would be talking to me. I was certainly no beauty queen. Still aren’t.

As we continued to talk that year and become friends, I learned that he didn’t think of himself as handsome, or even good-looking. I was completely shocked that he couldn’t see what I, and seemingly every other girl in the school, was staring at constantly. No, he somewhat repulsed himself, and that is when I learned that the darkness I kept so well hidden inside of myself had somehow wormed its way into his heart as well. I encouraged him, told him he was far too attractive to talk about himself in such a way, and after a time….he seemed to believe me. I would have been happy for this revelation, too, if not for the distance it put between us. Having newly discovered his own face, Jason began to hang out with the “cool kids” and nearly stopped speaking to people like myself, who despised this new found confidence, almost cockiness. Ironically, I had a vital part in pushing him away. But I expected this, because there was no way someone like him, would ever be interested in a nobody like me.

Sophomore year came around, and I watched his popularity soar. Every girl in school knew his name, as if he were some sort of glorified celebrity. He was, quite literally, the golden boy of our class. And his heart-stopping smile continued to haunt my every thought. I felt like my heart had been torn to pieces, the cracks screaming enviously as I watched each female gawking over his radiance. Each little pathetic shard slowly silenced over the months, and for the first time I understood the phrase “Everything heals with time”. The year passed quickly, and as we had no classed together, I was able to forget about him for a time. But the reality was that I was lying to myself.

It was junior year when my unexplainable obsession spoke to me again, at lunch time. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as his muscular frame eased out of his seat at the popular table, and slowly made his sweet time over to my lonely corner. I stopped breathing as he sat across from me under my safe, comfortable willow tree. For a time he said nothing, and I wondered which of us would speak over the barrier he had built between us first. As I finally lifted my eyes to meet his stare, the pain rushed back like an explosion, and I desperately wished to be elsewhere. At the same time I wanted him to tell to apologize for my broken heart, and tell me beautiful words of love. I was a helpless idiot.

“I need to talk to you.” He had a determined look on his glorious face. The smile was nowhere to be seen; in its’ place was a grim frown.

Since he had spoken first, I decided to reply. But really, I couldn’t help it.

“Don’t you have a table full of admiring fans who hang on your every word?” The bitterness shot from of my mouth, uncontainable in my misery. I added to my statement with as harsh of a glare as I could muster in my state. Why was he doing this to me?

“I can’t talk to anyone else about this. You’re the only one.” I should have been flattered, and admittedly, I was. But I instantly knew what he was talking about. The darkness. It had returned, and he couldn’t handle it by himself.

And so I was sucked back into uncontrollable fascination with him, his life, his promises of friendship, and unbeknownst to me at the time, his lies. For two years I helped him maintain his image, his popularity, his girlfriends, and most importantly, his sanity.

Then graduation day came, and we left for college. He never returned any of my calls, emails, messages or letters. And when my heart broke all over again, I swore it would be the last time. I would never give my heart to anyone ever again, because it was too painful. I would not allow it. Never again.