Ｄｒｅａｍ ａ Ｌｉｔｔｌｅ Ｄｒｅａｍ ｏｆ Ｍｅ
✫
𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔.
The unpleasant ordeal walks a very thin line between make-believe and reality, fooling our brains into doubting the simplest of circumstances. It's habitual for people, as well as myself, to evaluate these nightmares the next morning, begging to interpret disordered information given to us in our sleep. We talk as if these dreams are just timeless memories. The vivid picture forever dwells in our minds as a result. Nightmares not only skillfully gather the monsters we're most afraid of facing, but it tricks our bodies' into associating the peaceful venture of sleep with this terror. It almost persuades me to never lull to a nightly rest again.
Consider me the boy who's too afraid to sleep. I wasn't always like this though. Every night that's followed October twenty-fourth has become a sardonic reminder of that day. My dreams successfully trap me in a box of voices intertwined with those twenty-four hours, expecting me to find the key to freedom and silence. I haven't yet enabled myself the luxury, but quite the opposite.
My heart routinely suspends out of my chest and my body convulses in the cages of covers every morning around the same time. It's usually when the colors of a fat peach perch at my window sill, greedily absorbing nightfall to allow room for its vibrancy. However, when I catch a glimpse of the watery sunlight through the glass pane, I am sitting upright with my palms supporting me. I recall my dreams for their evocative moments, naturally becoming a poignant reminder of all the sorrow I'd caused.
When I awake, in contrast to feeling free, my mind still fluctuates between the indecipherable barriers. It's impractical to try and portray the realistic turnout of October twenty-fourth. My mind has manipulated it far too many times for me to depict what is real and what is not. Sleep is the only escape I can afford to buy from the real-world yet my shame, which is so tightly wrapped around my subconscious, follows me into my nightly coma. Even my whole family has joined me in the roleplaying of Groundhogs Day, and I can never seem to wake up from October twenty-fourth. I've lived that one day for far too many weeks.
After the verification that I suffer from a non-treatable "Nightmare Disorder" (which I fail to believe is a real-world condition), Dr. Silverstein has requested I fulfill the three tasks daily. One: stay hydrated. Two: get vitamin D.. Three: stay on top of your medication and whatever you do, don't skip a dosage. Three fat white capsules in the morning and two fat capsules at night. Medication and I have a love-hate relationship. On one hand, I feel the progress of improvement in my mindset, but on the other hand, everyone thinks I'm sick. I hate people assuming I'm ill or have somehow lost my sense of judgment and humor. They all look at me with pitiful eyes and an empathetic smile like I can't comprehend human emotion.
This morning is no different than the last hundred mornings I've lived through after October. I wake up, startled perusal, shaking and sweating bullets in my bed. I pat down the sheets and feel for the pool of sweat beneath me as I force my previous dream back into unknowing. While I work on leveling my breathing to a normal rate, I walk from the mattress to my closet and change into lighter clothes, disregarding my sweat-saturated pajamas with embarrassment.
When I change, I descend the carpeted stairwell to overhear laughter and hushed voices. Summer voices. The type of conversations that people are accustomed to hearing during summer time. It's airy, light, and spoken like a game of table ping pong. The chuckles bring me to my recollection of a vacation we took to Florida. We stayed to see our extended family that week. I remember specifically being caught within the circulating breeze, a block in its warm and enticing path. Florida is the perfect balance of humidity and wind. Big, leafy palm trees hangover the people like shells, capturing sunlight in little bathtubs of light. The bluest of skies imaginable drapes above, unless it rains, then the sky is mostly a yellowish-gray congregation of clouds. But I'm not in Florida, I'm in an awkward, box-shaped house in Colorado.
YOU ARE READING
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔
Short Story|𝐀 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲| In pursuit of running from a tragic past, Lyric Goscicki, saves the life of Birdie Ardolf, a stranger who seems to have a strong hold on their life. While Lyric is certain that he's losing all control and there's no coming...
