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Madeline Cross i dreamt that you died We are the same. Even now, our early dreams are sharp and bright like polished brass. The dreams we shared. I don’t mean figuratively. I don’t mean dreams of marriage or children or saving the world. I mean the dreams we dreamt while sleeping in our first bunk beds, one above the other. You had the view of the ceiling, the peeling paint and cracks that formed the pictures you turned into stories for me. I had the view of the wooden base beneath your mattress, our names scrawled in crayon on the top left corner, stickers of dolphins and tropical fish from the toyshop, stickers that would never come off, not even with soap and water. Those bunk beds were also a climbing frame. Being slightly older and more confident, you taught me how to somersault from the top bunk to my own. Sometimes we slept top to tail, until one of us kicked the other in the face and the perpetrator was angrily shoved out of the bed. We were passionate and violent and enjoyed hurting each other. Children like to test their strength. We tested ours with kicks, pinching, hair pulling and name-calling, but always with rules. Our own little universe of law and order. In the real world you were my protector, just as long as that behaviour fitted in with the characters you created for yourself. Once it no longer did I could be discarded in an instant, but it was all part of the roles we invented. You were always a leader; a captain, a prince, a hunter. I just wanted to play a boy instead of a girl. We were not the same in that way, and never have been. You were built from fire, I was built from earth, and we could cause each other damage. But not in our dreams. It was as if somebody had taken a guide to Freud’s theories and mixed up all of the sentences so that while some of the ideas remained intact, they were in the wrong order, with a different logic, or with no logic at all. You hadn’t wet the bed for years. I was big enough to join you in your bedroom and small enough not to be blamed for my 

Structo Issue 17  

Issue 17 features 104 pages of outstanding fiction and poetry, an essay on the unknown side of Jerome K. Jerome, and interviews with Vera Ch...