The room is silent. The only sounds I hear are my dreams. Dreams of forests and trees and grass and sunshine and peace. But I don't see these dreams. I hear them. The sounds of forests. The sounds you can't describe or explain but when you're standing in a forest and truly listening then you know that is the sound of the forest. The room is silent, but my dreams are loud.
I don't remember how I got to the room or how it came to be that the room existed. They told me that it's a part of my dream, but I don't believe them. They never have nice dreams. Their dreams are scary and unfinished. I heard their dream once. It sounded like you were falling or skydiving maybe, but you could hear the sounds of drills or surgical tools in the distance.
Their dreams were bad dreams. They projected them on to me when I was near them and disturbed my forest. That's why they put me here. To keep my dreams safe. They told me they would save my dream. I don't believe them.
The room is silent but I am not.
YOU ARE READING
Short Story Collection
General FictionA collection of short story, inspired from various other stories in many forms of media.
