Once Upon a Nightmare

the only thing to fear is fear itself

iii: the only thing to fear is fear itself

 

I grip the hilt of my sword, aiming the weapon in front of me, a sharp point for any unsuspecting enemy to encounter should they try and surprise me. The visor of my helmet is tilted up, allowing me to see into the thick forest.

I’m on a quest. I have a mission to complete.

Something else is itching at me. I know I’m supposed to find something, but the what is slightly elusive. A dark shadow shifts in the trees and I spring into action. Dragon!

I’m looking for a dragon. That’s why I’m dressed like a knight, with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. I have a memory of searching for this dragon, always getting only a glance of him as he evades me yet again. Pushing through the forest, I come face to face with a high-reaching mountain, its rocky side all but insurmountable. In the middle of the rock is a cave. The dragon pokes his head out, almost in boredom. I catch a glimpse of its fiery orange eyes.

In a flash, I understand: I’m dreaming.

How did I not remember? I went to bed intending to find Alexander again in my mind and figure out what in the H-E-Double-Toothpicks was going on. The dragon disappears, and with it the forest.

Now that I’m aware I’m dreaming, I realize my mind is using my subconscious desire to seek Alexander out and forming situations around it. Not like Candyland, which was freakishly real, but rather the vague, shifty planes of my own incomplete imagination.

I’m on a rainy street, dressed in grunge clothes, a crowbar raised to my shoulder. Why does my brain think Alexander is something to get rid of? True, if he’s real then he is a) slightly terrifying, and b) not very fond of me. But considering the alternative, a nightmare hanging out in my mind is a welcome explanation.

“I know you’re here, Alexander!” I call. “And I’m not afraid of you.” When he doesn’t appear, I swallow. “I believe you.”

“Do you?”

I whip around.

He’s sitting on an apartment stoop, dressed like a 1940’s gangster, his arm resting on one knee.

“If you did,” he continues, still with that awful, smoky voice, “you wouldn’t be seeking me out.”

The scene around us changes. Heavy chains hold me to a post as I burn at the stake. The fire doesn’t scare me, it’s the guilt—knowing I am what they say I am and this same awful burning will never leave me, even after it’s over, where I’m going.

The flames scorch higher and higher up my body, and I turn my face. I can’t believe how much it hurts, since it isn’t real. “Please don’t do this,” I say, trying to shout, but I cough on smoke. “I don’t want to use BlissMaxx, but I will if you don’t leave me alone when I sleep. I can’t do this every night. Please, Alexander—”

I don’t notice how or when the nightmare abates, but suddenly the pressures around my middle are not chains, but arms, holding me upright, setting me down. I grasp his wrist, trembling. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Just like that, we’re sitting on the moon, gazing down at planet earth. He sits next to me. I haven’t had a chance to look at him up close since the first time he introduced himself. His eyes are half-covered by heavy lids. He doesn’t seem quite as terrifying, mouth twisted in a despondent frown. “We’re in trouble, kid,” he says.

"Are there others like you? Do I have some unknown being hanging out in my head every time I sleep?" I ask, not sure I want to know.

He takes his time shifting his gaze over to me. "Not every time. How often do you have nightmares? Or a dream that was so great you wanted to go back to sleep just to have it again?"