It was all the same. The perpetual clock tick, the stolid gray walls, the overly clean and pungent smell that pierced your nostrils. Sure, it was all the same, but every day I wondered why things couldn’t be different.

My daughter slept in her hospital bed looking more frail than usual, her gaunt face seeming hollow. I sighed and glanced at my watch. With a sleepy yawn I arose from the cramped chair in the corner and into the night. The chilled air nipped at my skin, but I was too numb to care.

When I arrived at my apartment I tossed my bag on the stain spangled couch and chugged a cold beer. Sleep terrifies me, but it was inevitable. I crawled into my bed and hovered in the land between fantasy and reality. Then…I was sucked into the moment.

Like every night, I was at the beach. An ordinary beach with yellowed sand, scruffy vegetation at the back and the screaming ocean. Without thinking I frantically waded into the sea. Foamy waves crashed down on me but I paddled forward. It was then I spotted the beautiful aqua sea glass. I swam towards it, knowing I couldn’t let it touch the shore, flailing among the clamor of the waves. Water pulled me under and silenced the world for a second. I choked on seawater, coughing, sputtering, the glass inches away from the shore…

    Shocked by the alarm clock’s roar I suddenly jolted upright. Rubbing my eyes, I shakily slid onto the carpet and tried to process my strange vision. I drearily got dressed and headed out. What is this dream telling me? I pondered on the way to the hospital. I staggered into the morbid doors, the nurses giving me a curt nod of greeting.

At my daughter’s room I saw her sleeping as usual, her breathing forced and shallow. I looked at the clock with its ocean background, surf bouncing behind the taut hands. When my daughter looked at it did she see a pleasant day? Sun kissed tans and laughing kids and a good time? A time…when she was happy?

I picked up the picture of her and me and cradled it in my palm. She wore a hauntingly familiar aqua dress. The beautiful color seemed almost ghostly and delicate. With a jerk of my hand I accidently dropped the picture, scattered glass splintering all over the cold tile. The puzzle pieces snapped together, the cognitive gears whirled in my mind.

Could it be…could the shore represent death? I stared at my daughter as if looking for a sign. She would be fine, she would get through this. There was no way a stupid dream could mean anything; I dismissed it all as silly thoughts.

Night fell and I stroked my child’s cheek and kissed her goodnight. Why must a tragedy strike such an innocent little girl? Was it my fault? Was I a failed parent? So many questions, too few answers.
That night, of course, I had the dream. It was bound to happen. Once again I uselessly fought the waves, emotions churning inside me. This time, though, the glass was millimeters away from the bank, as if embracing the shoreline, caressing fate—

Then the phone rang. A steady, persistent tone, a casual shriek. It was 2:37 am. With trembling hands I answered it.

The only word I needed to hear was “critical.”

I sprinted down the street and burst through the hospital doors. The only thing I could feel was biting panic, a rush of horror swallowing my being so fast it was like being kidnapped by pounding whitecaps. I pushed past the others, who cared about them? All that mattered now was my little girl.

Her eyes were open, fearsome and innocent, like a fawn. I told her how much I loved her and whispered empty promises like how it would be alright.

Slowly her grip on my wrist faded, her skin grew pale, her eyes began to glaze over and the tears streamed down my face.
The sea glass hit the shore.