Serendipity

Moonlight Horrors

“Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.” 

 

-Bram Stoker, Dracula

 

 

27th July 2014

2:34 p.m.

She’s been having them throughout her life. Nightmares. She ardently wishes for them to stop, but then again everyone has nightmares. Don’t they? Perhaps a few have more than the others.

It generally follows a pattern though. Atleast for her.  They attack her and consume her whole when she is alone. What horrifies her most is that the nightmares are mostly never about her. She is always a spectator. The protagonist is generally a loved one- her parents, her husband or her children. She can only go berserk in her dreams while the goriest and vilest of things happen to her loved ones.

She pads down the hallway of her Connecticut estate towards the sprawling balcony. Her night shirt is still wet from the sweat and her long blonde hair done up in a messy bun is sticking to her temples.

Upstairs, the bedroom is bathed in the pale moonlight. The king size bed lays vacant with its sheets lying in a tangled mess. The left bedside lamp is switched on and is casting a warm glow on a picture frame, a half empty water glass, a book and spectacles.

Downstairs, Meryl Streep lights a cigarette on the balcony’s roof. The whole house claims only one occupant- the one standing in the balcony and puffing on a cigarette. The moon is the only source of illumination, so she peers to see far ahead---into the darkness and space.

Tonight’s nightmare was one of the worst. She is still reeling from it-twitching and trembling at the slightest of noises. She can’t call to check whether he’s fine. She’ll just worry him. Of course he’s fine. It’s only her silly nightmare. Don Gummer is alright, she’ll not accept anything else.

The children are in New York and Los Angeles, like they usually are. Only she is here, looking after the lake, the guesthouse and her own home while Don’s in Japan sealing an art deal with CSK Holdings.

The night air is still chilly, although it’s July. She ignores the goosebumps on her skin (which might have been there not because of the cold but a feeling of terror) and wonders what these dreams mean. She hopes they are insignificant. She feels almost relieved that she is alone when most of them strike. Sometimes Don is there, and he holds her like one would hold a fragile glass showpiece. He soothes her and sings to her and does everything thing to make her forget the darkness. It’s embarrassing when she has one. She knows this much. She screams, thrashes, sweats, cries and curses and then wakes up feeling like she has been run down by a truck.

She feels exactly like that right now. Maybe she can call Don and say that she can’t sleep---no, he’ll see right through her. Coffee seems a better option. The call can---no no has to wait till morning.

Coffee in hand, she curls up in the barcalounger and the wonders why she’s been having nightmares ever since she was a child. She’s never put much thought into it, she likes to ignore them; put it aside. No point dwelling on fragments of her bizarre mind.