Nightscape

Nightscape
by Sonia Suedfeld

Bill Thompson woke up hard, a scream clawing up his throat. He sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide with horror and his brow coated in sweat, as the afterimages of a terrifying nightmare careened inside his head. A nightmare full of blood and cut-off body parts and rage unleashed.

It took a long time, but eventually Bill’s heart rate slowed as he clutched the sweat-soaked bed sheets to his bare chest and stared into the murky darkness of his room. His breathing levelled off, his damp skin cooled in the chill air. But the images still came as fast as ever, flashing across his mind’s eye one after the other, and each seemed more vile and terrible than the last.

Bill shook his head violently, pushing the palms of his hands against his temples, and squeezed his eyes shut.

It was getting worse every night and he didn’t know what to do about it.

It had started about three weeks ago, the first nightmare a benign and tame version of the one he’d just had, and each night since, the nightmares had grown in horror.

A woman in a white dress, dead on a bed. That had been the first nightmare.

A woman in a white dress, dead on a bed, her severed head perching on the night table, her hacked-off arms and legs in a heap on the floor, her blood streaking the bed and the walls and seeping from jagged wounds. That had been tonight’s nightmare.

He didn’t think he could stand much more of it. How many more nights could he endure? How much more horror could he face without losing his mind?

Was it already too late?

Bill glanced at the mound in the bed beside him. His wife, Annie, was curled up in the blankets, sleeping soundly. He had not told her about the nightmares. Why should he? They hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words, and awful ones at that, in the last few weeks. Annie went about her life as if he didn’t exist and Bill tried, rather miserably, to pretend he didn’t give a damn.

But he did. More than she would ever know.

He’d told only one person about the nightmares. He’d mentioned them to Dr. Harding when he’d gone to get his prescription for sleeping pills renewed. Stress was the culprit, the good doctor had said, and Bill knew it was true. Stress at work, stress at home. Lots and lots of stress at home, mountains of it.

When had it all started to unravel? His marriage, his life? Years ago, it seemed, but it had gotten worse the last few months, especially the last few weeks. Ever since he found out Annie was cheating on him.

There was no doubt, the private investigator had told him while pulling out a stack of photographs shot with a telephoto lens. All of them showed Annie having sex with another man -- in their own bed, his bed.

That had been bad enough -- heart-wrenching, to say the least -- but it had been nothing compared to finding out who the other man was. His own best friend, Tom McLean. Ex-best friend now and a goddamned bastard.

What kind of friend slept with your wife? What kind of wife slept with your best friend?

Tom had always been a ladies’ man and a lying son-of-a-bitch. But Annie? His sweet wife of twelve years and the mother of his two little boys? How could she? After all they’d shared, after all they’d meant to each other?

No wonder he was having nightmares.

Bill glanced at Annie in the bed beside him and suddenly choked on tears that ran hot and steady down his face.

*****

Stumbling into the ensuite in the dark, Bill turned on the tap and splashed handfuls of icy water on his face. Reaching for a towel, he flicked on the light and turned to look at himself in the mirror above the sink.

And screamed, his eyes wide with horror.

Blood was everywhere. Matted in his hair, dripping from his wet face and hands, coated on his bare chest, streaking the white porcelain of the sink. Even his pyjama pants and feet were speckled with drops of blood.

“Annie!” he shouted, as he stood rooted to the spot and stared at himself in the mirror. “Annie! Oh God, Annie, you’ve gotta come quick.”

Was he still dreaming? Was this just another demented part of his nightmares?

Bill squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten in his head.

The blood was still there when he opened his eyes. Bill screamed again, his hands clawing at his face.

“Annie, oh Jesus, Annie… what the hell is happening?” he yelled, his voice on the verge of hysteria. “You gotta help me, Annie. Please.”

There was no response from the bedroom. Bill lurched out of the ensuite into the room and walked around to Annie’s side of the bed.

“Annie? Wake up, Annie, something’s wrong…”

Bill flicked on the lamp on the bedside table and turned to look at Annie.

But all he saw was more blood, a sea of blood.

Bill collapsed to the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs, and his mind shattered into a thousand pieces as he stared with saucer eyes at what was left of his wife lying on the bed.

*****

Somewhere down the hall of the psychiatric ward someone shrieked with night terrors, but all was silent and still in Room 223 where Bill Thompson slept.

And dreamt of nothing.