"I woke up on the floor in front of my bedroom door again," I say.
He asks how I know I wasn't simply sleep-walking.
"The tips of my fingers were bleeding from trying to claw my way through the door, Doc."
"Oh," he says, making another note on his clipboard. I have to give it to him. He has a knack for being under-dramatic.
The Doc tells me that he knows it's been a tough road. He hands me a glass of water, and asks if I see the glass as half full, or half empty today.
Slowly pouring the water onto the floor, I say, "This is how I see the glass." I hope he gets the point. I need help, and I need it now.
I'm sure the concern he has for me genuine. Having known him for a long time, I might go so far as to consider him a friend. Yes, he has been trying to help, but nothing is working so far. And it's looking more and more likely that nothing ever will.
"All I want to do is to find a way to live a normal life. If something doesn't change soon I might end up inside an institution."
"I know," he says. "I've pulled some strings to get you in the trial. This new drug is promising for people in situations like yours."
Acceptance into the trial is the best news I've heard in year. I'm so excited at the possibility of a new start I almost want to kiss him.
The Doc wants me to keep up with the journal. He doesn't want me to lose hold of my experiences, the good ones—however rare—or the bad ones.
"Because of the nature of dreams," he says, "the harder you force yourself to recall everything, the quicker the substance begins to blur and change, leaving only a vague imprint of what's really there. So don't push it, all right?"
I know exactly what he means. After a dream, the picture never seems complete. When I write down what I remember, one moment it make senses then it's gone. I try my best to re-live it, and the edges begin to crack. Then I discover a point where there's a contradiction, my brain attempts to re-evaluate everything. Then the center falls out and the context is torn away, leaving a black hole in the experience. Inside that nothingness is where the important answers have fallen.
"If this works," he says, "you'll never have another nightmare again."
He hands me the prescription, tells me to take two before bed and wishes me luck.
Amen.
Chapter 6 - Snowflakes
Imagine a snowflake falling from the sky; that's me. I'm the snowflake. I'm floating down to the earth. The night is dotted by the haze of city lights below. The wind pushes me in one direction, and then another. I continue to fall, and now I can make out the shape of individual buildings. Falling further still, I have an idea which section of town I'll land. A gust hits me, changing my course for a final time. I'm between two buildings. Is it going to be in an alley way? Yes. There are people below me. Three people. A snowflake's lucky to land on people. But, I miss them, landing softly on the ground. That's all right. How great it is to be a part of this perfect white blanket of snow. The dream of safety suddenly crashes in on itself. All around me the ground is turning red. Before I can despair, I become red too.
I'm the woman. The man dressed in a white baker's uniform is still holding the knife but not attacking. He's just leaning against the wall and watching as his partner rips at my clothes. His all white uniform is contrasted by a black ski-mask, black leather gloves, and black combat boots. The man on top of me reaches back and he hits me in the face again with the butt of his gun. I don't feel the pain anymore but the taste of blood is growing stronger as the colors drain from the world. I'm able to keep my wits even though the world exists only in shades of gray. The demented baker had been following me. I had hoped he only wanted money, so I'd dropped my purse and ran as fast as I could. I frantically search for someone to help me, but the baker was so close behind. In the distance I saw a man standing under a streetlight and I screamed for help.
I'm the assailant. I hit the bitch again since she seemed to like the last one so much. I know she's trying to retreat back into her whore mind, but I won't let that happen. I want her to understand why I'm doing this. How stupid the bitch must feel. She looked so relieved when she saw me under the street lamp. I couldn't resist a smile when she screamed out for my help. When she dove right into my arms, I laughed. Even then she didn't realize who I was, the stupid bitch. I hugged her close, whispering that I would protect her. Either by my voice, or by my smell, she finally remembered me. But it was too late for her. I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her into the alley.
I'm the observer. The ski-mask itches but this is the most fun I've had all week. He's working her over so good I don't even have to get my uniform dirty. How many times has he's slammed her head into the concrete? Beating people isn't my style, not unless they ask for it, so for a split second, the thought crosses my mind that I should kill him for how cruel he's treating the lady. But I don't. Torturing someone is fine as long as you end the suffering when you're done. She had really thought I only wanted the purse. Then she ran right into the trap. Shivers ran down my spine when he said, 'Remember me bitch? We're going to have a fucking blast!' And man, oh man, we sure are.
I'm the bystander. I'm peeking around the corner. Four in the morning on Christmas Eve I saw a woman dragged into an alley. The one on top of her is screaming, telling her how much he hates her for what she did to him. The one in the mask, he reminds me of a stone gargoyle. I want to help but I'm scared. No, I think. The only thing to do is to hide here…keep filming everything with my phone. If only the damn snow would stop messing up the shot.
Chapter 7 - Getting Better All The Time
Normally I hate when it takes me an hour to find parking, but not today. Today is a good day. Normally I hate when I have to walk by ten people who all give me a fake-friendly reminder that I'm late for work, but not today. Today is a good day. Normally I hate hearing the water-cooler gossipers blabbing on and on, but not today. Today is a good day. And normally I hate absolutely everything about this job, but not today—no, no, not today.
Perhaps the enthusiasm is premature. Those pills that the Doc gave me are experimental. They may not even work. Right now though, I'm experiencing something that can only be described as hope. Hope is a feeling I don't have often. I've got to say, it's a great feeling…the best feeling.
Looking around my small cubicle, I'm surprised to see the stacks and stacks of papers that have piled up. It's a backlog of work that I had no intention of ever doing. Not even this brings me down.
I do wonder how I haven't been fired for lack of performance. Honestly, with a job such as this one the idea is to find and maintain the absolute bare minimum of work without catching the attention of upper management. When you find the sweet spot it doesn't look like you've been slacking off, but rather that you've been overworked and you're doing the best you can just to keep up! I probably look like a company rock-star. But I'm not the "go-to-guy," or "Mr. Dependable." The truth is I'm a joke. That's all right though. So is almost everyone else.
Feeling inspired, I dig into the mountain of meaningless paperwork, hell-bent on making it disappear. Co-workers walk by and do a double-take when they see the frantic pace at which I'm working. I flash them a maniacal smile. Most walk away in shame, or scared.
The mess quickly vanishes. I knocked out five days worth of work and it's not even lunchtime. Somewhere in the background noise of the office my Boss's Boss is chewing out some bum. My name is mentioned. Praises of how hard of a worker I am, how I should serve as an example, something about the possibility of a promotion. No applause is necessary. Thank you.
With nothing left to do today, I switch between looking at funny cat pictures on reddit and reading all the success stories of people in the trial for this new medication. Based on all the research, it looks like this might really cure me.
"Wow!" a girl behind me yells. I jump, and bang my knee. Hell, I nearly fall out of my chair. I twist around to see the person whom I every intent on ripping a new asshole.
It's the new gi
rl, the cute one that I never had the nerve to speak to. My anger blinks out of existence, leaving me completely dumbfounded.
"Ouch," I say.
Ouch? Ouch, really? Idiot.
She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and I just know I got this stupid expression on my face. To top it off, I'm trying to pretend like I don't know that she knows that I almost fall flat on my face.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"Ye-um-yes," I stutter.
"You sure? I really didn't mean to startle you."
"I'm fine. I didn't hear you walk up."
"You had all that work on your desk this morning. How did you manage to finish?"
"Was in a mood. Needed to channel some built-up energy. You're new here, right?"
"Yes. I've been here a little over a month now. I'm stuck trying to learn this payroll system."
This isn't bad. Am I having an actual conversation? Take it slow.
"Oh, I remember that. If the server wasn't bolted down, I would have thrown it out the window. Want some help ripping out of the rack?"
Her eyes light up and she laughs. She's supermodel gorgeous; tall, slender, green eyes, blonde hair, and a great ass. She's well out of my league but…
She's smiling. I'm Smiling, too. Haven't done that in a long time.
"You're funny. Looks like we have a few things in common," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
"Like we're still working here."
"Still here," she agrees.
And still smiling.
I fell victim to judging a book by its cover. I never bothered to say hello because I didn't think she would consider exchanging a greeting with someone like me. But here she is. Up-close, I see a tender innocence in those green eyes.
Say something funny.
"You might end up employee of the year having made it this long without quitting."
That wasn't funny.
"I would love to leave but I can't. I'ma a single mother."
Kids? Kids are all right. The way she said it…
"Rough divorce?" I ask.
"Widowed"
Way to go, idiot.
"I'm sorry."
"It happened a long time ago. My son wasn't even a year old."
Surprised I haven't completely blown it, I decide it's time to take a chance and do something I haven't been able to do since high school.
"Well," I say, trying my best to keep eye contact, "since you're going to be here for a while, I wouldn't mind giving you a few tips that can make life at the company bearable."
"Really? That would be great."
My heart is beating so fast I feel like it's about to explode when I ask, "Can we talk about it over dinner?"
As soon as the words are out, I brace myself for rejection. It won't bother me. The day's been going so well, and just knowing I found the courage to ask was a huge step for me.
She blushes. The word 'No' is forming on her lips.
"Yes," she says, "I'd love to."
Chapter 8 - Laundry List
Dreams turn into nightmares and nightmares get worse over time.
If someone had told me when I was younger to stay away from all things related to horror, I might not have ended up with this twisted imagination. Since no one bothered to give me that excellent advice, maybe that's why all of the monsters that scared me as a kid pop up in dreams, which turn into nightmares, and like I said, nightmares always gets worse.
The best way to start a list is though the words of an old children's song:
One, two, he's coming for you. Three, four, better lock the door. Fix, six… You've heard this, you know what's next. Mr. Freddy Krueger, this will forever be stuck in my head, when I hear, seven, eight, I get a sinking feeling because I know you're close by. Nine, ten, and I'll never sleep again.
A special thanks to Mr. Jason Voorhees. As a child, I wanted to go to a summer camp. That was until I saw you for the first time. Now I dream of a lake and I know you will show up with a hockey mask and machete.
Mr. Michael Myers, I run as fast as humanly possible. You chase, but never running. You travel at a slow and steady pace. Right before the blade of your knife finishes me off, I wonder how you manage to always catch up.
Mr. Thomas Hewitt, otherwise known as Leatherface, that chainsaw of yours has came at me more times than I would like to admit. Captain Elliot Spenser, you opened the box and became Pinhead, leader of the Cenobites. You showed me what Hell really looks like. Mr. Charles Lee Ray, affectionately known as Chucky, you were just a doll that wanted to be my friend. I still don't know why you needed steal my body as well. Because of you and the one they call Puppet Master, any and all dolls will forever scare the shit out of me.
Zombies, both fast and slow, have had me trapped in schools, malls, farm houses, police stations, fast-food restaurant bathrooms, and on the rooftops of apartment buildings. Sometimes I hear your quiet moans of hunger, but other times you scream for brains. The worst fear takes over when you manage to take a bite of me.
Speaking of the dead, have you ever found yourself walking down the corridors of a poorly lit morgue? Have you ever met an undertaker who can only be described as The Tall Man? He keeps an army of dwarf zombies as company, and a flying silver sphere that enjoys drilling through people's skulls.
None of them have been around as long as you, Mr. Impaler. Vlad, you dined on the blood of your enemies, burned their bodies, and left behind countless rows of stakes, each with a human head, a warning to everyone. Dracula is the worst, but vampires are never fun to meet unless you have a wooden stake or some holy water handy, which I never do. Wolfman, I don't often see you, but I hear you howling in the woods. All the radioactive creatures from the fifties, I try to fight but you keep mutating and never stop growing until you can crush everything.
To the Dark Lord, the one of Legend, you and your human flesh-eating goblins once had me caged and ready to be tossed into a pot of boiling stew. Damien, I try to stay on your good side, but you manage to manipulate me into doing your evil bidding. To Satan himself, and all your fallen angels, you succeed in turning Earth into Hell. Even you, God, sometimes when we meet you have your hand on the lever of a trap door. We both know where that chute goes.
Mr. Daniel O' Grady, why did you steal the Leprechaun's bag of 100 gold coins? What is funny to adults can scar a young child for life. Krites, the nasty little critters will pick your bones dry if the Bounty Hunters can't stop them. Why did you ever have to become that rolling ball of death that left skeletons in its wake?
Mr. Mummy, you never scared me, but I hope you aren't offended. I've found myself locked in your sarcophagus before, and that made me wet the bed. Mr. Gravedigger, I hear the dirt hitting the casket as you bury me alive. Death, please don't use your scythe again.
I'm even scared of puppies sometimes. I know Cujo and experienced the pain of rabies. Fluffy, I still don't know what you are, but there are times when I see those claws coming out of that chained crate. Isaac and Malachi, I've been to Gatlin and I've had to run though the corn fields. Randall Flagg, you have walked in more worlds than anyone can fathom. You bring pain and death. Pennywise the Clown, I know they all float, I don't want to go into the sewers. I've met you all in a world that had been destroyed by the super flu, Captain Trips, on the order of the Crimson King.
Chapter 9 – Maximum Lucidity
I wake up, but I don't open my eyes right away. While lost in the darkness I try remembering the dream, but I'm unable to recall any details. I feel groggy. It isn't like the normal grogginess of not enough sleep. No, this feels more like I've slept too long. Not that I'm complaining. Over sleeping is far better than the alternative.
Eyes still closed, I wonder how long I've slept. My internal time keeper insists that when I look at my wall clock, it will be ticking past 1 PM. If I'm right, I'll need to come up with a believable story for my boss. On the other hand, I might get a pass since I did such a commendable job yesterday. I might ev
en get away with taking the whole day off. That would be nice.
I crack my neck and stretch, struggle to get my eyes to open. It's still pitch black. I blink. Something is wrong. Had I slept through the whole day? Is it night again? Did the pills do this? The Doc told me to keep a record of everything: nightmares, dreamless nights, thoughts, feelings, and most importantly, any side effects I experience while on this medication, so I reach for my pad and pencil but they are not there. That's the least of my worries considering that my desk isn't there either.
"What the fuck?"
I sit up and realize that I'm not in my bed. I'm on a strange couch. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I take a quick look around. I don't recognize anything at all. This isn't my house.
Great.
I don't freak out like most people would if they woke up not knowing where they are and don't remember how they got there. It's happened before, and chances are it will happen again if this medication doesn't work. While not used to this, I am prepared.
Because of the intensity of my sleeping disorders, I've lived by a series of rules that have kept me relatively safe.
The first rule is sticking to a routine that will help minimize the negative consequences of a sleep-walking dream gone bad. Part of that routine is going to bed each night at a set time, and only going to sleep in my own room. I always lock myself in. I always sleep alone. It's safer for everyone.
The second rule is to stay in my room each morning for an hour after waking. As I've said before, even if I wake up and find myself in my room, I may still be dreaming. These episodes when I think I'm awake, but I'm actually still asleep, last a short period of time. I can snap out of it any time before then, but it's rare. During these events, everything seems very, very real. It's only when a nightmarish element oozes in that I'm forced to accept I'm sleeping. When I leave that room an hour later, I feel safe knowing that I won't have an episode.
The interesting part is when I wake up and I find myself in an unfamiliar environment. Some part of my brain remembers these rules. I know that I'm not where I should be. Normally when this revelation happens I snap out of the dream instantly. Sometimes though, I don't snap out of it. I stay under and I get to spend some time in a state known as lucidity.