𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 [𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝]

⟹ 𝐢𝐢. 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐫, 𝐒.𝐑. 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝟏-𝟒

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

August 24, 20─

I dreamt of Maeve earlier.

Actually, I've been dreaming of Maeve for several nights now, but I fell asleep on the jet and woke up to Emily giving me a look which tells me I was probably mumbling her name in my sleep. Since the seizure, I've been having them. They aren't as detailed as the hallucinations, which I try not to tell anyone save my therapist because a coma induced hallucination is apparently not a very good conversation piece. (Or as Penelope told me.)

Maeve hadn't spoken in this dream; she never really does. And I couldn't see her face, but then I've been having those types of dreams too, since she died, so it isn't entirely out of the ordinary. She was walking in front of me, and I was calling out to her, which is probably why Emily heard me sleep talking.

Her words—Maeve's, not Emily's—always ring true in my ears, despite the fact that she'd said it in a strange state. Maybe it wasn't even her. Doctors did say a brain under duress can be fickle, and make up images that we can't quite discern from reality. I know the research behind it, the science of my hallucinations from that day when my brain decided to bleed out.

Despite that, I still believe it had been Maeve who spoke to me that night. And maybe in my dreams, too, she's trying to communicate something else from beyond. I had not lied to her in our conversation—regardless of how tenuous that conversation had been. Whether or not it was reality isn't the point; the point is, I had not lied.

She had asked me what I love, and I'd answered magic. And ghost stories. And as spooky as dreaming about your dead girlfriend is, I find some strange comfort in knowing I can still see her. Because I hadn't lied when I said I loved her.

I still do.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

September 2, 20–

My therapist said it's normal to continue having dreams of Maeve, but then I had launched into a long spiel about Freud's theory of dreams (which she, may I add, actively participated in; I think she liked talking to someone else about it) and before I knew it, we had been talking for nearly the entire session and debating about Freud and Jung.

I hadn't had the chance to tell her about the dream I had a few nights ago, which I believe is imperative.

I touched her. Maeve. I'd finally managed to come up to her, and touched her hand. She's still faceless, but... it felt good. Nice. Her hands were cold. I didn't remember them ever being cold before, but then I wasn't really able to touch her when she'd been alive. Is that why her hands are cold? Because of death, and I'm trying to touch a ghost? Perhaps I'm just lonely and this has become the ramblings of a crazed genius.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

September 5, 20─

The thing about having an eidetic memory is that of permanence. All my life, I have had it for better or for worse; whereas people find trouble recalling facts, I am plagued by the complete opposite. They swirl inside my mind, never giving me peace, sometimes slipping out of my mouth unbidden—by myself, or by the people around me. Sometimes both.

Dreams have always been the same way; whereas most people lose their recollection of those vague dalliances when they were unconscious, I wake up with memories so vivid I could almost believe they were real. All the time.

But not now. For some reason, my dreams have been hazy as of late. They'd begun on August 18, which had been precisely a month after I had recovered from the brain injury sustained from the standoff with Everett Lynch. I don't understand the importance of the dates yet, but feel the need to write them down regardless. Doctors like to ask for evidence, even though I have more than enough proof of my abilities but for some reason, they don't seem to trust my memory.

I can understand why, memories are unreliable, after all, and I've had my fair share of false ones. Especially during that time in Mexico and—well, it seems I ramble in my journals as well.

I had a point. The dreams. Well, my memories are connected to the dreams, so I suppose the ramblings weren't too far off. Specifically, that I have been forgetting them. It started back in the beginning of September. Back in the dream where I'd been able to touch her, hold her hand. Even that dream is hazy now, but I can recall that her hand was cold.

I shall have to consult this with my therapist and the neurologist for a second opinion. I myself have some theories, of which some are academic, some esoteric and interpretative. My brain might be acting up again. I'm due for a check up anyways, maybe I can have my doctors refer me to have another scan done, just to see if there are any complications happening.

On the other hand, this might be symbolic—a sign of moving on. Of Maeve finally letting go, and me... well, trying again. I had tried with Max, and while that didn't work out, it wasn't bad. Just... spoiled because of one particular experience with an unsub whom I will not give a name.

Whatever it is, I will get to the bottom of it. Until then, I look forward to dreaming again, even if it's not a guarantee I can remember those dreams.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

September 9, 20–

It's not Maeve. It's not - I don't know who it is. She's still faceless. The therapist - I haven't gotten the chance to talk to her face to face yet, but I called over the phone and she agreed that this might be my subconscious way of telling me to move on.

But it's not Maeve. It's not — so what could this mean? That I have moved on? Is it JJ? But - no, I don't even want to entertain thoughts of that. We had worked it out. It's just - she's a blonde, and I'm trying to go through all of the blonde women I'd known in my life. Lila. Ashley Seaver. Why would I be dreaming about any of them? How could I be dreaming of another girl already? Is this simply a manifestation of my loneliness? I don't want to tell that to my therapist, because that sounds rather pathetic, if I'm being honest. Nearly forty and dreaming of women. Freud would have a field day– speaking of, I should go through his theory of dreams again. Figure this out while I wait for the results from my neurologist.

In the meantime, work is going well. Being in a consultation position is easier than being always out on the field, however, it does give me a lot of free time at my office. Time to think. And inevitably, my thoughts always seem to lead back to her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Notes:

ARE YOU OBSESSED WITH THIS IDEA BECAUSE I AM!!! I'm reading Dracula and I really liked the idea of an epistolary novel, but I didn't want to commit to the whole thing lol.

Hopefully, I captured Spencer's inner voice, even vaguely. If I didn't, oh well, there are future chapters to try and make it better :>