That was normal, and then after moving to Las Vegas and living the life of luxury that became my normal. Now, well, now this was normal.
I finally drifted off to sleep, thinking about the two bedroom trailer, and my home from the time that I was born until my eighteenth birthday. The dream was so real this time, not that I didn’t say that every time that I woke in a panic, but this one was worse.
I was huddled up to the only heat source in the house. The wood stove was barely throwing off any heat. I tried to bring some wood in, but it was frozen, and my fingers weren’t strong enough to pull any of the pieces apart. It was late, and my dad wasn’t home from the bar yet. Justin was no longer there, so I had to be at least seventeen. I sat with a blanket leaned against the stove with my back. The metal was barely warm, and I knew that it would be completely burned out within the hour.
It was the first time that my dad ever hit me, besides being whipped by his belt anyway. The first time was the very first time that he had come home in a drunken stupor after my mom had left us. I guess it was my responsibility to fill her shoes. I heard the old truck pull into the drive and I ran to my room, wrapped in my blanket. He started yelling as soon as he opened the door and realized the fire was almost out.
“Morgan! Get your stupid ass out here.”
I didn’t move. I hoped that he would think that I was asleep and just leave me alone. He didn’t.
“If you’re not out here by the time I count to three, I am going to beat you to a pulp.”
Although I knew he was going to do it anyway, whether I went then or ten minutes later. I walked out. He slapped me across the face, not giving me time to explain that I had tried to bring wood in. I could handle the slaps in the face. I would have chosen those over the sound of his leather belt being pulled from his belt loops any day.
I could feel the burning stings on the backs of my legs and my back when I woke, out of breath and panting like an overheated dog. I grasped my nightgown at my chest, and squeezed the material in a tight fist, trying to tell my heart that it was okay, and I was safe in my own home in Maine. I brushed the damp hair from my forehead and got out of bed. It was too early to be awake, and I knew I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was too freaked out. I made a cup of hot tea. Starlight had given it to me the day before when she had told me that I looked tired. She said that it was a relaxing tea and would help me sleep. I dozed back off on the sofa, wrapped in the fuzzy warm blanket from the back of the couch. I woke to the sound of my alarm going off in my room.
I yawned, still tired as I drove the short drive into town. I parked my car in the back and unlocked the door. I had no sooner gotten the first coffee machine brewing when I jumped, startled at the tap on the door. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the town sheriff, smiling at the door, remembering Starlight telling me that he hung out there on Saturday mornings.
“Good morning,” he said, stepping in as I unlocked the door for him, “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he added.
“Good morning,” I returned, and continued to get the five machines up and running. “I guess I am not quite as fast as Starlight,” I said as he sat at one of the small tables.
“Actually, I’m a little early this morning. You’re fine,” he assured me.
Phyllis showed up with the pastries next.
“Morning, Sheriff,” she spoke, placing the goodies on the counter.
“Good morning, Phyllis. Please tell me you brought those little raspberry filled Danishes today.”
“You’re in luck, I did,” she smiled.
Phyllis didn’t stick around and had to get going to open her own little shop.
“Coffee is ready,” I said to the sheriff, not turning to look at him.
I walked behind the counter with my own cup of coffee, and he poured himself a cup.
“My name is Dawson, by the way,” he said stirring the cream into his coffee.
I snickered a little on accident.
His eyebrows rose as he looked at me. I felt my face blush from embarrassment.
“What?” he asked, and my face became even redder. I was sure of it.
“I’m Riley,” I said, trying to smooth over my dreadful outburst.
“Nice to meet you, Riley. Why are you laughing at me?”
I couldn’t help but laugh again. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just thinking how much your name fits your job description. You know, sheriff in a small town by the name of Dawson.”
He laughed too and sat down with his pastry and coffee.
“So what brings you to this small town, Riley?” he asked, and I didn’t want to answer questions for a cop. I hated intimidating men, not that all men weren’t intimidating to me, just some more so than others, and a uniformed man with a gun was one of the others.
“I’m not sure I have figured that out myself yet, sheriff,” I said, and busied myself wiping down the counter in front of me.
I wished someone else would come in, preferably the same sex as me.