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I dream every night, and I dream always of her.
Her face is a rare glimpse in the reflection of a glossy surface, but I know she is remarkable in her beauty. I can't help but wonder if I might go blind if confronted with her splendor completely. I try to manipulate the dream sometimes, to catch her eye, but I always wake before our gazes meet.
The man in my dreams is much clearer. He's older with streaks of gray in his inky black hair. His eyes are kind and open. Occasionally, I'll spend the entire night watching the girl and the man fish alongside a small stream. They don't even speak. It's very peaceful.
But typically, if the man appears in my dream, I tend to bear witness to the same conversation.
The girl is small as she climbs into the man's lap. "Tell me a story," she says.
"Oh-ho!" His laugh is deep and booming. "How about the story of your birth, hmm? Let's see… It was a beautiful summer day; the air was crisp and clean. Everyone in the village had come to celebrate my birthday, and I believe I was in the middle of opening your uncle's gift when your mother suddenly screamed out in pain."
The man— her father— laughs again, loud and boisterous and loving. He pulls the girl into his embrace and squeezes her sides. She giggles and struggles to escape. They eventually calm, the man resting his forehead against hers as they stare out over the seaside village.
"You couldn't wait another day," I hear him murmur fondly against her cheek. "There wasn't a thing in this world that could keep you from a celebration, Eka. Not even your own birth."
When I awake from these dreams, for a few seconds I remember the name Eka. It rolls around in my brain, scrambling for purchase, until I remember it means "first born" in Indonesian. And then the thought vanishes and I can't recall what my dream was about.
Or that I even had a dream at all.
Sometimes, the dreams feel so real. Like the ones where an older woman hunches over a wood stove and teaches Eka to bake bread. Whenever her mother makes an appearance in my dreams, I can smell the delicious scent of food as if I am actually there. Sometimes I can almost taste it.
I also have this recurring dream where Eka's long, dark hair is being twisted into an intricate braid by the small nimble fingers of a younger girl. And I can almost always feel the way the hair tightens against Eka's scalp as if it is my hair that the young girl's fingers are getting caught in. She tugs and the hair pulls at Eka's scalp and her neck is yanked back—
My neck is yanked back.
But we endure it, because that's what older sisters do.
I notice most of the nameless faces in my dreams are in awe of Eka. Like when l stand with her in the middle of a stage as the music starts. I match her steps as she twirls across the wood floor. I smile proudly with her when the crowd gasps during a particularly high spin. I bow with her when they applaud.
She dances across the world and I dance right alongside her.
When I wake up from these particular dreams, I typically don't remember the action of dancing, but I remember the emotions it evokes. The longing for that kind of freedom lasts most of my waking day, and I hate it. I'm frustrated by it. My waking self doesn't have words for that feeling. I have no concept of freedom.
I'd loath the girl in my dreams if I could remember her when I'm awake.
The dreams where we dance are the absolute worst.
They're even worse than the ones where Eka is sick.
I believe she's in her late teens when she becomes violently ill. More often than not in my dreams, I watch Eka slowly die in her bed. She's home in Indonesia, I think. Her mother and father make a few brief, hazy appearances, and I sometimes find her sister braiding Eka's thinning hair as she vomits up her breakfast.
I can't tell if these dreams take place before or after we dance our way across the Earth, and I don't know why I need to parse out the timeline of this dream girl at all. Either way, it seems unlikely that someone could survive a disease as bad as this one appears to be.
And yet… I think she does.
I think the white man with the piercing blue eyes and the pointing stick makes her healthy again.
Actually… I think he makes her immortal.
Despite that thought, I still think the strangest dreams I have about the girl... involve the boy.
He's a handsome boy with an infrequent smile that leaves me weak in the knees. He's all-encompassing, so much so that I hardly remember the girl's existence when he makes an appearance. It's him and only him. He's dangerous and he's a danger to himself. Sometimes he turns into a storm, black and destructive. It's absolutely terrifying.
I don't dream about him enough.
Tonight I dream of a circus. I've had this one a few times before, where Eka is one of the acts. She stands in the center of the ring as the crowd shouts at her. "Do it! Do it!" they yell. I curl protectively around her as she dances for them, her arms extended as if she's striving to reach for something that's not there. Her long hair sits atop her head in a nest of braids that don't look nearly as precise as the ones her sister's slight fingers used to produce. I still can't see Eka's face, but I somehow know she has sad eyes.
She writhes and snaps and contorts.
And then she morphs. And then she sinks into me. And then she is me.
My dream is crystal clear when I wake. I remember it all so vividly. I remember every terrible detail. I remember me.
"NagiNi..."
And then it's all gone.
All my memories slip away in an instant. Gone are the Indonesian summers spent laughing by the river with my father. Gone are the cool hands on my feverish cheeks as my mother feeds me her chicken soto. Gone are the late nights gossiping with my sister about the boys in the next village over. Gone are the legs that once saw me pirouetting across the New York dance hall. And gone are the arms that saved the boy I loved from himself.
I'm just a snake again. I'm his snake. I'm him.
I slither up to my master and curl around his pale, outstretched arm. "YeSss... MassSter?"
"CoMe… you are MissSsiNg the CelebratioN..."
"What are... we... CelebratiNg?"
My master gives me an odd look with his blood red eyes. "DoesSs it... MattEr?"
I pause. It's brief, barely a pause at all. But I pause.
"NEveR…" I reply.
He sets me on the marble floor and I slither alongside him as we exit the parlor. I am a perfect servant.
I doubt we are celebrating something nice, but…
Something tells me I was never one to miss a celebration.