Dreams From My Father Novels & Stories

"You fucking useless brat! Wasting my time where I could have made money but instead, I had to come and pick a nobody like you up...." "Oliver! Complete that sentence and I will hurt you son or not! You don't get to talk to Samantha like that!" Grandpa shouted and I could tell his anger from his fist. "Whatever Patrick! Don't ask me to take her again in fact why don't you put her up for adoption." My father says and with each word, he says I feel my eyes blur from tears. Not even my father wants me. Waking up I noticed that I was crying. Why do I always get sad dreams or nightmares?

“I’m less scared when you’re here. That’s the honest truth.” Something in my chest softened quietly. “You’re scared?” “Yes.” He said simply. No performance in it. He pulled me back to the bed and we sat facing each other, close enough that our knees almost touched. “Tell me.” I said. He exhaled. “I’ve been having dreams. The same one, more than once. It’s been keeping me out of myself.” A dream that would put someone in that state? “What kind of dream?” I asked. “A woman. I can’t see her face. Just her outline. Her voice.” He turned the information over like he was still trying to make sense of it himself. “She told me if I want to know who she is, I should ask my father.”

Instead he studied me the same way he studied combat patterns—like he was mapping something invisible. “How many times now?” he asked finally. “Three.” He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “The dreams will give you information you can’t access consciously,” he said. “Document everything. Even the details that seem irrelevant.” I frowned slightly. “How do you know that?” For a second something shifted in his eyes. Not emotion exactly. More like a door opening just enough to see the room behind it. “Because the same thing happened to my father,” he said quietly. My stomach tightened. “When?”

It was the middle of the night, and the mansion was utterly quiet, but the terrifying echo of the dream was deafening in my ears. It had been so real. Too real. My father. Not the monster I now knew him to be, but the father from old memories. The one who had once held my hand, who had taught me to ride a bicycle. In the dream, he wasn't menacing, wasn't cruel. He was... broken. His face, usually so cold and composed, was etched with a raw, unfamiliar pain. He was kneeling, or perhaps just hunched over, his shoulders shaking. And he was speaking. His voice, raspy and choked, was repeating one word, over and over. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

That night fatigue took hold of me. As I drifted off to sleep a strange dream crept in. I was in a familiar place where the bitter memories of my childhood were imprinted. There stood my father, a figure who had left a deep trauma in me. "This must be a dream, right? But why did I dream of my father?" I thought about this because it was an odd thing. Never once did I dream of my father and suddenly tonight I dreamed of him. I saw my father who was in pain, his body full of wounds and grimacing for mercy.

There were wolves surrounding my house and in unison they all let out a howl, throwing their heads back. I woke up sweating. I've had this same dream now at least once a month. It's almost been a year now since we've come to America, it seems like we sailed across the world to get here. When my mother died it was easily the worst day of my life and everything that happened after, happened fast. Father was offered a job in the New World quickly after, and so our journey began. Father was a stark contrast to my mother. She was so full of light, the thought of her warms my face. She found the beauty in everything, the Earth between our toes, the flowers in bloom, the way the birds sing their so

Mia woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. The dream was still vivid in her mind, her father’s face, his kind yet stern voice. He had looked at her with both love and sadness, saying, “You must do what’s right, Mia. Remember who you are.” His words lingered in her heart, heavy like a stone. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the darkness, her chest tight with guilt and confusion.

Still this could work for you, couldn’t it? ‘In what way? I looked into my mate’s dream- bad dreams!’ ‘And if they were not just any dream?’ Fenris raised a brow at the suggestion. ‘What if that ‘dream' you had was more than just a dream? Think about it, Fenris. If that was just any dream, you wouldn’t find those scars on her.’ His eyes slowly widened, as he caught on to what his father was saying. ‘Dreams can be many things. One of these things is-‘

Though The Matrix Trilogy was probably not the best movies for that. “Abby?” I heard before long, coming from the garage door. “Yes, Josh, I am here in the living room,” I called back. I waited as he walked down the hallway. “Hey, how was your day?” He asked as he kissed my cheek. “It was good, but I have met someone else now. His name is Zelimir, he is from the Mortal World,” I finished explaining my dream to Josh as he sat on the couch next to me. I told him of everything in the dream and everything that I had been thinking of all day, except of course, the fact that Zelimir was so good-looking.

I thought about what it costs to leave something for someone you are not going to be there to give. I closed my eyes. I did not sleep for a long time. When I did I dreamed about Lyon. The factory floor. Friday morning. My grandfather walking it and my father walking it behind him as a boy — small, serious, already watching the way things worked with the specific attention of someone who was going to need to understand everything eventually. I woke at five. I got up. I went to find out what my father had left me.