Et tu, Brute?

Prompt:
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I dream the same dream every night. The heat is heavy, my throat is parched and I can feel dust chafe against every pore of my skin. I am falling. Falling for miles through hollow silence. The terror grows steadily from a lump in my throat to a choking, suffocating mass that seizes and imprisons my every breath. I know that within moments, I will hit the barren earth below.

But I never do. I wake up suddenly, with the utter helplessness still fresh in my nerves and the sun-scorched sky still burning in my eyes. A whisper shoots instinctively, unbidden, to my lips: Et tu, Brute?

Once I feel the familiar softness of my pillow and recognize the dim shadows of my bedposts, my desk, my curtains… I realize in panic that I do not know who I am talking to. Consumed with the desire to find out, I will myself to go back to sleep, re-enter that world, and find out who pushed me off the edge. But dreams are not slaves to our whim, and their actors cannot be summoned at will. They won't let me have my answer.

I dream the same dream each night, and so the mystery of my traitor-to-be has begun to gnaw at me through each hour of each day. The vivid images are an unrelenting warning that someone close to me will hurt me, so deeply I will never recover. A faceless presence looms before my eyes and casts its dark shadow on my every thought, motion, interaction. I cannot forget.

At first, I continued to go to work every day, meet the same friends in the evenings, visit the family on weekends. But it wasn’t the same.

After a month, Jay put the difference into words. He was back from his business trip:

“Paris was unbelievable! It’s such a beautiful city that you completely forget that you’re there on work. But I missed you so much!”
“Same.” I forced the corners of my mouth into a smile.
“How was your day? How was that big appraisal with the boss?”
“Survived it.”
I left out the fact that I cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes after.
“He liked that report you made? The one you spent hours on?”
I shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“But you’re still going to quit right? You know I’ll be there for you when you start that café, all the way.”
“I'm not going through with that.”
Jay gave me a long, searching look.
“Lara…what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I wish you’d tell me what I’m supposed to have done.”
I began clearing the dishes, waving him off with a short laugh. But it rang false, to my ears and to his.
“I’ve loved you since the day I met you three years ago, and I know you love me too. But you’ve changed so suddenly. You’ve stopped telling me how you feel about anything. I sometimes see this strange look on your face, like you want to say what’s on your mind, but can’t…”
A pregnant silence swelled between us.
“Lara…it’s like you don’t trust me anymore. And I just don’t know why.”

I still dream the same dream every night. But at least, I tell myself, I know that Jay will not be the one to push me off the edge. There is no way he can hurt me now, for we do not talk anymore.

That weekend at my parents’ house, I was ensconced under the covers with a book when my mother came in. She sat down at the edge of my bed, smoothing the dust off a forgotten photo album.

“I found this just now, clearing through the things in the basement.”
She turned to the first photo – a small child swathed in many layers of red silk, beaming at the camera.
“Do you remember that day? I came home and found that you’d pulled out my wedding sari and decided to dress up! And then you said to me: “Mommy, will you marry me, please? I know you best and you know me best, so I only want to marry you.””
The next picture showed a tall teenager standing at the edge of a swimming pool, her eyes wide with undisguised fear. The figure of my father splashed encouragingly in the water.
“You were so afraid of the water, remember? But we all went swimming every day and you did get over it”
My mother smiled sadly. “I wish you’d tell me what’s troubling you, my dear. You’ve been brought up to know that you can always confide in me. You can tell me anything, and just talking about it will help. You know that.”
I saw the soft, sweet crinkles of my mother’s face and was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to envelop her in a hug, to break down and tell her all my fears as if I were a little girl again. But the image of a haunting fall, and the ominous words- Et tu, Brute? – hung heavy between us, a barrier that was impossible to break down.

Mom and Dad still call me every so often, but after that weekend, I started finding excuses not to visit. The girl who was once so proud of her honesty is suddenly fluent in the language of lies. If I don’t see them as often, I tell myself, they won’t have the chance to hurt me.
Slowly but surely, I’ve cut away all of those in my life who were closest to me. Now I share my joys and sorrows, hopes and fears with no one but my own journal. And so, as I settle down under the covers every night, I can only wait helplessly for the same dream that I dream every night, wait to be pushed off the edge by that closest, greatest traitor of all – my own mind.

Word count- 982
Written for PDG Advanced Short Story Workshop