The Dream

They finally gave me a piece of paper and a pencil today. Dr. Alvarez says that I am doing much better. He says that I should be able to leave in another year or two. I think that he’s wrong though. I don’t think that I’ll be alive for that long.
Before you read on you must understand that I’m not crazy. Far from it, in fact. I should definitely not be here, in this soft, padded room with its soft lighting. There are so many bright, nauseatingly colorful pills here, and too many chances to sleep. Too many chances to dream.
No, I am not made for this cozy Hell. If things were right in this existence, if God truly was high on his throne, then I would be out spreading the word. I would write my own Gospel, and my disciples would sip coffee and dine on No-Doze at ours, the holiest of communions. Our contribution to the Church would be to cleanse the Earth of so-called sleep therapists - to rid the flock of hypnotists, head shrinks, and Sleep-Easy peddlers. There would be no naptime, no siesta, and the mention of a good night’s sleep would be met with thumbscrews and fire brands. In truth, sleep would be the most blasphemous of crimes. As it was meant to be.
Forgive my ramblings. I can assure the reader that they mean more to me than to anyone else. But let it be known that this is my testimony, my attestation to the world that the Devil resides in the dreams of men. I am not speaking figuratively, or making some gross generalization. I speak from experience. I am the walking undead - unable to sleep for fear of death, unable to stay awake for lack of rest.
Once I was a babe lost in the woods, innocent to the horrors of the world. I had a life, a real honest-to-God life. I was a student in fact, a senior at the University of South Carolina. My major was Psychology.
In those days I loved to write. I did not have much skill at it, but I loved it none-the-less. And though no particular topic interested me the most, I usually wrote about my dreams. My nightmares, to be precise. As any good writer knows, the subconscious holds our deepest emotions and our most primal fears. This is the seat of our imagination, and it is our link to the past and the future. Little did I know that it could also be our downfall.
In my mind I have lived that night many times. It is reminiscent of the last song that you hear on the radio as you drive to your job in the morning, the one that replays itself over and over in your head all day. The only way to rid oneself of the accursed melody is to replace it with another, so that the cycle never ends. But that night cannot be replaced, and I will live with it until I die.
The night began normally. I had been living in an apartment by myself, and my routine was to eat several bananas before I slept. I had heard somewhere that they induce nightmares. I can remember thinking how wonderful it would be if I had a really vivid nightmare, something to stoke the creative fire that had been burning dimly in my writing that week. As my consciousness drifted from me, I wanted nothing more than to wake screaming before laughing myself back to sleep.
The dream took shape as a classic bad dream. I found myself being chased through a desert by a group of strange demons. They could have been giant bats, except for the hairy, oversized ape-like arms tipped with razors. Of course I knew my part. I had to run until the dream ended, or until the landscape changed as one dream merged into another. This, however, did not happen.
I ran for perhaps fifteen minutes, my pajamas flapping in the dry breeze. Instead of changing, the expanse of desert seemed to grow, to form and reform in front of my eyes. The wind stung my eyes, the heat sat heavy on my back, and I began to tire. ‘This is odd,’ I thought as I sat down on the crest of a dune. My mind usually had more surprises than this bleak landscape in store for me in my dreams.
Then a thought occurred. The sand felt too real. The heat did also. My mouth was like parchment paper, and it hurt when I tried to swallow. Why was this? Physical senses rarely were this vivid in any nightmare.
I stood up just as one of the creatures approached, its membranous wings stirring up a dust that made me cough. Something was wrong. The gauzy, half-remembered quality of the dream had disappeared. There were now only the stark features of the real world.
I began to panic. I vaguely remembered that something extraordinarily bad happened if you were caught by your pursuer in a nightmare, but I had no choice.
This had gone too far, and I intended to wake up one way or another. I grabbed the creature by its neck just as it lunged at me, and I threw it to the ground. I lifted my foot to step on it and another one buzzed by my face, slashing me with its razor-claws. Although I felt no pain, I did notice a warm trickle on my cheek. I ignored it, stomping on the grounded abhorrence with all my strength. There was a loud popping sound, and everything faded away in a swirl of colors.
I awoke in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. It had been a dream after all. Or so I thought.
I slapped the alarm clock, even though it would not sound for another five minutes. I felt dirty, and I needed a shower. I walked slowly down the darkened hall to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. What I saw in the mirror brought the hint of a scream into my throat.
There was dried blood on my left cheek and shoulder. The claw mark could be seen clearly under it; a diagonal line almost three inches in length. It was shallow, but at the same time strangely deep-looking also.
I screamed then, out of pure terror and disbelief. Then I turned and ran into the kitchen. I had to get away from this madness, this dream that would not end. There had to be some escape back to the rational world.
I passed a window and happened to glance out. The campus was gone. The world was gone. An endless, unforgiving desert spread out under the window, stretching into infinity. The creatures were there too. Waiting, watching, they were tired of the hunt. They hovered poised to attack, ready to collect their prize. Their eyes blazed red with hatred.
I made it as far as the deadbolt on my front door before the closest of the demons smashed through the windows. Shards of glass spiraled through the kitchen, showering me with small flashes of pain. I covered my face, and when I lowered my hand the demon was already lunging for my throat. It squeezed, and I saw it relish the pain and fear in my eyes. There was surprisingly little pain as its nails tore into my neck, and all I could think of to do was repeat the phrase, ‘It’s only a dream’ again and again.
I passed out then, and when I next awoke I was here. They call this place Juniper Hill. Apparently, a neighbor heard the commotion and called the police. They said that I must have tried to commit suicide by breaking the window and slashing my own throat. But I forgive them. They don’t know what I know.
So here I am, silenced by these walls and by everyone around me. They call me crazy. There is a fine line between lunacy and divine inspiration. There is an even finer line between what we know is real and what we believe is a dream. I crossed both of these lines, and now I must pay the price. May God have mercy on me. I know that the creatures that come in the night, beating on the windows with leathery wings, will not be as kind.