Polayna sat in the meticulous living room with her father. He said he had something important to talk to her about after breakfast. Even better, he wanted to talk to her alone. Without Pamela there, Polayna felt at ease expressing herself to her father. Across the room, the sun light played with the myriad glass figurines sitting lonely and dust free beneath the window sill.
She sat up straight on the overstuffed pink love seat. “Daddy, I have been having these dreams. Horrible dreams about killing a man on a bike and floating prisons and voices in my head. I’m afraid to sleep anymore.”
Her father looked down at his black slippers for a long time before answering her. “Polayna, I have something to tell you. I have waited long enough and it’s obvious you are ready to hear this. Polayna you a dreamworker. I am too. You have a gift. We have a gift.”
“What’s a dreamworker daddy? What does this have to do with my horrible dreams? I killed a man in my dream last night! And I enjoyed it! His face…it was so terrified.”
“Your mother and I wondered if you would have the gift too. It seems that you do.”
Polyana sat forward on the love seat. “Mama knew about this?! Why didn’t she ever talk to me about it?”
Ronald Bunchnut looked at his daughter long and hard before he answered. “Polyana honey, your mother wasn’t murdered. She killed herself. She wasn’t able to control her gift and eventually it controlled her.”
The shock was immediate. These dreams controlled Polayna now. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What is a dreamworker?”
“The Bunchnut family is the last in a long line of dreamworkers. You are the last woman left with the gift. Dreams are real Polayna. Everyone dreams. And everyone thinks that they are exactly that…dreams. They aren’t. One persons dreams are another persons reality. Always. Even the most wild dreams are true somewhere, someplace. Dreamworkers acknowledge and accept that everything they dream is happening somewhere. There is so much evil and so much hurt in this world that your mother couldn’t deal with it anymore. She never learned to work her dreams.”
This was too much information to process so Polayna didn’t try. She just asked more questions. “What do you mean “work” her dreams?”
“Being a dreamworker is not enough. Generations of us have come and gone but only a choice few learn to control it. To use it. That dream you had last night…about the man on the bike…somewhere that was happening while you dreamed it.”
The thought of bludgeoning someone to death with a baseball bat made her sick. An uncontrolled stream of steamy breakfast flew from her mouth onto the plush pink carpet. Someone, somewhere died last night. And she saw it.
“Polayna, I know how strange this is for you. But let me tell you…you can control these dreams. You can change them. Have you ever had dreams about places or things that don’t seem to be from this planet?”
She wiped the corners of her mouth tasting used pancakes and contemplating voiding the last of her breakfast onto the living room floor. Her father was totally unphased by the runny pancake chunks on the floor. “Yes, I had dreams about some sort of spaceship prison with voices screaming poetry at me. That can’t be real.”
“It is honey. Somewhere, someplace, that is really happening. And you can change it Polayna. You can make a difference to those people in your dreams. If you learn to control your gift.”
She sat in her disbelief. She could have saved the man on the bike.