All the characters mentioned in this series are just fictional and are never intended to imitate any one
It's a story of a girl who shares her dreamly experience with us
When I was ten, my parents gave me a dream journal.
I hated it on sight. And please understand: I’m not saying that to exaggerate. I literally hated it before I even knew what it was. You see, I got that dream journal for Christmas, and my parents, in the usual that most children experience before the holidays, left all our presents out under the tree days in advance. Which meant that I and my younger sister Reena had to restrain ourselves from tearing open the wrapping paper, even though our fingers itched just looking at all those boxes, and our mouths started to water just imagining what was in the stockings.
Or at least, that was true every year except the year I got my dream journal. I don’t know what it was about that small little box in nondescript, cloudy blue wrapping paper stuck off to the side of the usual gaudy pile of red, green, and gold wrapped parcels, but for some reason, its just being there spoiled the effect.
I don’t know what I was expecting to come out. Probably a dead rat, or a slug, or a human hand, or something like that, so you can imagine my surprise when what fell out was, instead, a very pretty book with wide, cream colored pages, all bound up in black leather. At first, I thought it was a picture book, or some sort of novel, but when I saw the pages were blank, I realized it wasn’t anything like that.
Father must’ve sensed my confusion, because he leaned over and started thumbing through it while explaining, in that patronizing and absurd voice that all adults think will sound comforting that, “It’s a dream journal, Shasha. From now on, whenever you have one of your dreams, you can write it down here before you forget. That way, if it’s a good dream, you can remember it longer, and if it’s a bad one, you’ll feel better just getting it out of your system.”
I think I must’ve almost thrown it when I heard that. Now I knew why I hated the stupid thing. For even though my father made a point of leading with the idea that I could write down good dreams in it, I’m sure he knew that I knew that nothing like that was going to happen. The truth was that he and mother had been worried about me for ages, because it seemed like there wasn’t a night that went by when I didn’t wake up screaming from a nightmare. Truth be told, I still can’t recall a single night in my childhood when I had a peaceful night’s sleep, to the point where I think I just assumed nightmares were a normal side effect of being asleep. I certainly always wondered why my little sister Reena never seemed to object at all, let alone as strongly as I always did, when our parents said it was bedtime
PART-2 : https://wrytin.com/abhishekmudigonda/i-help-boy-jqkrg86h
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