THE UNWRITTEN GAME OF BETRAYAL

Selena 

I moaned, tossing on my sweat-drenched sheets. My chest heaved as the fan above me spun lazily, useless against the heat clawing at my skin. It wasn't the room that burned; it was this repeated nightmare.

God, not again!

I was back in the garden, my childhood flashing before me like shards of glass. There she was, my stepsister, Clara, her small hands reaching toward the doll I clutched in my arms. There were a lot of toys on the ground but Clara's eyes were transfixed on the baby doll I was holding.

Before I could say a word, Clara's little hands stretched out anxiously. 

"Give me!" Clara shrieked, her voice piercing, "Give me!"

"This is mine, Clara," I replied as I held the toy closer to my chest, 'Please pick another toy."

Clara's small face twisted into a sulk, her eyes fixed on me with unrelenting determination. "I want the one you're holding," she demanded, her little hands already reaching out.

"Go play with your toys," I said, holding the doll closer to my chest. "You have so many to choose from."

"No!" she snapped, her voice rising as she stomped a foot. "I want this one."

Before I could say another word, she grabbed at the doll with surprising force. My grip tightened instinctively. "Let go, Clara!" I yelled, matching her pull with my own. "You're going to spoil it!"

The tension in the doll stretched between us until, suddenly, her grip slipped. Clara stumbled back, arms flailing, and fell. Time slowed as her head struck a small rock with a hollow thud.

"Clara!" I screamed, the doll falling forgotten to the ground as I rushed to her. I dropped to my knees, shaking her tiny shoulders. "Clara, wake up! You can have the doll! Please, wake up!" My voice cracked as fear clawed at my chest. 

She didn't move. 

Panic flooded through me as I bolted toward the kitchen. "Mom!" I yelled, my voice trembling. "You have to come—Clara's not moving!"

Her worried face appeared in the doorway almost immediately, and I pointed frantically toward the garden. "What do you mean, she's not moving?" she asked, her voice sharp with alarm.

"She fell! I didn't mean…" I choked on my words as we rushed outside. 

My stepfather, drawn by the commotion, interrupted me. "What's happening?" he asked, his tone already edged with suspicion.

My chest felt tight as they got to where Clara was and we looked at her lying so still on the grass.

"Clara! Wake up!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear when Clara didn't respond. He looked at my mother, "Don't stand there! Call 911!"

My stepfather glared at me; his words laced with a venom that made my insides twist. "You're nothing but trouble," he spat again, his voice low now but no less lethal, "This is all your fault!"

My mother had already disappeared into the house to call for help, leaving me alone to face his fury. I could feel the tears streaming down my face, hot and relentless, but I couldn't move. The garden felt like a cage, closing in around me as Clara lay lifeless on the ground.

The sound of sirens shattered the suffocating silence. Bright, flashing lights painted the walls in erratic patterns as the ambulance screeched to a halt. Paramedics rushed in with my mother, their movements sharp and precise.

"Everyone, step back! Give us space to work!" one of them barked, their commanding tone slicing through the tension.

I stumbled back, my legs shaking so badly I nearly collapsed. My stepfather, however, didn't budge. His accusing finger pointed at me as he turned to my mother, who had reappeared, her face pale and drawn.

"You should not bring this child close to the hospital," he spat, his words venomous. "Do you hear me? She doesn't deserve to be anywhere near Clara."

I could see the pain in my mother's eyes as she glanced at me, then back at Clara. Her hesitation cut deeper than his anger ever could. She didn't defend me. She didn't even argue. She just looked… defeated.

"Will she be better?" my mother asked one of the paramedics, her voice trembling. "Please, tell me she'll be okay."

The paramedics didn't respond. They worked quickly, securing Clara onto a stretcher. One of them muttered something into a radio before they began wheeling her toward the ambulance.

My mother followed, wringing her hands, desperation etched into every movement. "Where should I keep Selena?" she asked my stepfather, her voice barely above a whisper, "I'm coming to the hospital."

"She can't stay in this house," he said, his tone colder now, more calculated. "I don't want to see her when I come back here. Do you understand?"

My mother nodded slowly, and my world tilted. The ground beneath me seemed to give way, leaving me weightless and sinking all at once. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the sound of the ambulance door slamming shut. The flashing lights grew dimmer as the vehicle sped away, but the shadow they left behind loomed heavy over me.

I was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

I shot upright in bed, my chest heaving. The nightmare's grip was relentless, its echoes still rattling in my head.

My eyes darted around the dark room, and then I saw that my door was ajar, and my mother stood there, silent, her shadow cast long and strange by the dim hallway light.

"Were you having a nightmare?" she asked, stepping inside. Her voice was soft, almost too soft like she was trying not to wake a ghost.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah," I managed. My throat felt raw. "It's been happening for a couple of nights now."

She nodded slowly as if expecting the answer, but her expression was strange. Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and when she turned toward the window, I realized she was crying.

"What's it about?" she asked, sitting on the edge of my bed. Her voice cracked just enough for me to notice.

I blinked at her, confused. My mother never asked about my dreams. "Mom?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Why are you crying?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she wiped her face quickly, like she didn't want me to see. "It's nothing, sweetheart. You should try to get some rest."

"Rest?" I repeated, incredulous. "Mom, what's going on? Why are you…"

"Morning," she cut me off, rising to her feet. "It's the weekend. We can sit down and talk this morning, okay? Just get some rest."

She stepped back toward the door, not waiting for me to respond.

I watched her leave, the soft click of the door echoing in the silence. Confusion and unease twisted in my chest. What could make my mother cry like that? Why wouldn't she tell me?

I wanted to get up, go after her, and demand answers, but fear rooted me to the bed as I had bigger fish to fry.

And yet, I couldn't close my eyes again. Not in this darkness lest the bad dream come back.

I stared up at the ceiling, the shadows shifting with the fan's hum, and wondered how I would explain to my mother the dreams I'd been having. Would she ever tell me why she's crying?

I thought of what the dawn would bring. Whatever it was, I knew it wouldn't be good.