Rachel told me to write down my nightmares. I told her I can't. She says that writing them down like stories will make them less real. She says if I can write them down, they won't be so scary anymore. She's wrong. She doesn't know that if I write them down, they will be more real. She doesn't know that they are real. She will read them, and when they really happen, she will know about me and my curse. No one can know about that. The only reason I am even saying it now is because Rachel promised me not to read this stuff until I say okay. I will never say okay. This stuff is just a crazy little boy saying random stuff. It proves nothing. The dreams will prove everything. Everything I see when they touch me. The way that Sage will be hurt by her dad and that horrible Finn. The way that Rachel will find the man she is looking for and it will change her life forever. The way my mother hurt us all so much. I don't want to think of this stuff. It's making me cry. I don't want Sage to see me crying like a stupid baby. I think I will paint for a while. Painting is better than thinking or sleeping. Painting and swimming are good. And Sage, Sage is good. She makes me feel right, even though I am all wrong.
I'm supposed to be asleep, but after a nightmare it's so hard. I just know the minute I close my eyes I will see the things that will happen, things I can't stop even if I tell everyone on the planet. Or, even worse, I will see the things that have happened in the past, not just to me, but to anyone I've touched. I dreamed tonight about Rachel. If I told anyone about the dream, they wouldn't understand. They would say it wasn't scary, just a mom watching her little girl falling from a tree and breaking her arm. I know it happens everyday. But when you dream someone else's life, it's like being in a place so foreign and forbidden that all the colors are beyond black, somewhere in an ultraviolet range that only butterflies or deep sea creatures can conceive of. All the emotion is magnified and sharp like daggers to the heart and head. Even Lanie can't understand how awful the dreams are. They make me want to never sleep again, or never see another living person. So instead of sleeping I think I will just write this stuff down or draw a picture of Rachel's daughter. There is something about her . . . even her name tastes good. Sage . . . mmmm.
I didn’t want to write anything yesterday. It was a “bad” day for me. I know Rachel’s daughter was watching me swim in the morning, and I was afraid she might come down. After swimming, I went upstairs to paint. Lanie was locked in the bathroom for a long time. Sometimes when I paint I have to sketch it first, sort of like practicing. But other times like yesterday, it was like my hand was not connected to my mind. The strokes mean nothing until I'm done, and then the painting just IS. I’m not really telling it very well. It’s like I see the painting inside, but not with my eyes. When the painting happens like that, I forget time and space and everything. My body stays there, but the rest of me leaves. So I had an accident and Grandmother got really mad and made me cry and cry. Rachel is going to start a chart for wet and dry days, and she is going to make grandmother stop yelling and hating on me. That might help some, but Sage will never like me. If she ever knows any of this stuff ,she will never be my friend. I just wish I could be different because then Sage and I . . . I don’t know; I just know the painting I did today; it was her, and I haven’t even seen her yet.
We have a new therapist now. Her name is Rachel. Lanie calls her a shrink, but she looks pretty normal size to me. The first day she met all of us together, Lanie, grandmother and me. I was scared, but at least I didn’t have to talk. I met with her 3 times now and she is very nice to me, but she wants to change stuff around and I don’t like that. I told her how my Grandmother hates me, and she asked me why I think that. Why wouldn’t I think that? It’s a dumb question. She yells at me all the time, calls me a baby and sometimes she even hits me when I do the wrong things. Rachel thinks I am wrong, but she will see. Yesterday Rachel moved into the garage apartment, so she can work with us all the time. She told me and Lanie that she has a daughter our age named Sage. It’s a funny name. I wonder if she tastes like Thanksgiving stuffing. Anyway she didn’t have to tell us. I knew, of course. There’s more too. I keep “seeing” this Sage. Something is different and special about her. She makes my stomach hurt. I wonder what she looks like.