nightmares

Nightmares1

When I was a kid I used to always have nightmares. Ghastly images of ghosts and zombies and unseen creatures would haunt my mind every night. Even my dreams--which were supposed to be pleasant--contained dreadful images of death. The dream could take place at my high school and there would be all sorts of grotesque accidents occurring all around me. When I was little, these "dreams" and my nightmares scared me. When my nightmares were especially horrifying I would just curl on my side and force my eyes open--the longer they were open, the longer my refuge from the dreaded images.2

I used to cry and call out, screaming for my mother. She never once heard me. I always wondered if it was a lie or if I really didn't scream out into the darkness of my room. Mother was the only one around; Father had been gone for the longest time. I never saw him; I never knew him, so I was never sad for his absence. I had Mother--that's all I ever needed.3

Eventually, as I grew older, the nightmares changed. I no longer saw images of ghosts, zombies, and other creatures--I saw myself, or my mother, dead--mangled in such grotesque fashions that just the image would wake me from my "peaceful" slumber. As the nightmares changed, my attitude towards them eventually eroded away, leaving a different attitude behind.4

These nightmares, I came to realize, were nothing. They were just images concocted by the recesses of my mind, representing something I wasn't aware was within myself. If they were just images--if they weren't a piece of reality--then what was I so afraid of? There was nothing to fear.5

Still, after every nightmare I'd wake, though now I didn't scream out for Mother. I learned she would never come so I also knew there was no point to calling out. No one had ever heard me scream. Sometimes I'd wake panting as if I had actually run from the image I had seen behind my eyes. My heart, however, was never pounding in my ears like it had several years ago. It was always calm and steady--it often was the only comfort I had when I would wake in the middle of the night. The soft thumping was like a lullaby; I always fell back asleep listening to my heart.6

The images began to soften after I made it a ritual to listen to the beating of my heart. I had no idea as to why. There were nights when I couldn't hear my heart, however, it was beating so faintly in my chest. Those were the nights where the nightmares were the worst. People everywhere--some I knew personally, some I hated, some whom I had never met in my entire life, mangled, blood everywhere.7

Yet I slowly stopped waking up at such horrifying images. Waking up meant possibly having a repeat movie behind my eye lids. The images no longer scared me; the fact that I could wake up with a heart that wouldn't change its pace showed me that my body was used to these visions; it was just my mind that was not. So I trained my mind to remain unhindered from these disturbing visions.8

I became able to sleep a night through. I guess that had been my mistake. Mother, knowing of my history with nightmares, would ask me if I had slept okay; if I had been able to sleep the night through. When I started telling her, several days in a row, that I could actually sleep all night, Mother's behavior began to change.9

Mother was never much of a happy person. However, when I started telling her I could sleep through the night, she began smiling more. A certain shine became apparent in her eyes--one I had never seen in my entire life. I thought she was happy for me--ecstatic that her son could finally escape his nightmares; ecstatic that her son was no longer plagued with ghastly images.10

But I was still plagued; I just never woke up during the nightly videos. Until one night?the nightmare was the worst I had ever watched in my entire life. It started normal enough; but then an image of my father came into view. He was smiling, holding my mother by the waist. The two of them, smiling, together? I had never seen such a picture before in my entire life, even while I had been asleep. Then the image contorted in itself--my father was no longer smiling. All I could see of him was a thin line of his body.11

The area around me smelled of dusty clothes and mothballs. Was I in the closet? The crack of the closet door seemed testament enough. I opened the door even more, to see what was wrong with my father, but I heard something that made me pull myself into the closet, almost shutting the door to it all the way. Gasping, my father backed up into the wall across from the closet, his mouth moving but no sound issuing forth. Mother was suddenly visible, a long knife--the steak knife, if I remembered correctly--and she was advancing toward my father. She, too, was saying something. The two appeared to be having a conversation back and forth--Father continuously backing away from Mother; Mother inching closer to him.12

In an attempt to shake Mother off Father suddenly dashed forward--but Mother must have predicted the move, because she grabbed him with her free hand, holding him in place. I could see their faces; Father's eyes were wide, his lips trembling as he spoke, his hands reaching desperately for something behind him while Mother angled the knife near his throat. Her eyes were slits, her mouth pursed in a sneer.13

The next minute seemed to last forever. Father was once again screaming something, trying to angle his head away from the edge of the knife. Mother pressed the knife further against his skin, screaming something back. As Father began saying something else, Mother slashed his neck wide open, blood flowing freely over her hands. Father dropped the floor with a silent thud, but Mother wasn't done with him. As I watched the scene, horrified behind the closet door, Mother's face contorted even more until a twisted smirk was all that was visible on her features. Father was in pieces on the floor, blood everywhere.14

Mother looked towards the closet and smirked even more, her blood-splashed face leaving the most disturbing impression on me. Her smirk remained as she advanced towards the closet door. The sound of the door creaking open was all that I could take--I awoke, panting, my heart beating frantically in my chest.15

"Father?" I whispered, sitting up on the bed. "I understand?I finally understand, Father?." Slowly I stood up, catching my breath and calming down my heart.16

There was no way I would be able to fall back asleep. My hands were shaking, curled up into fists at my sides. Moving on its own accord, my body removed itself from my bed and headed towards my door, my hands turning the knob and pushing the door open. How many different houses had we lived in, Mother and I? When was the last time Father had ever contacted us? The stairs had forgotten to creak as I made my cumbersome way down them. The knife?I needed to get the knife.17

Finally awake and aware of what I was doing and of my surroundings, I walked into the kitchen, and again not a sound following me in my wake. I searched the dish rack for the steak knife.18

"She killed him," I said to myself, staring at the knife in my hands. I could see the blood dripping off the blade. I felt a strange stinging sensation in my eyes; I blinked and the sensation was gone. "She was going to kill me?."19

I turned around, my heart still pounding softly in my chest. Seeing my mother's eyes in the darkness, seeing their now-present gleam in the dim light, made me cringe.20

"Jeremy, what are y--?"21

The rest was fuzzy. Aware I wasn't dreaming but unaware I was present in reality, I lunged at Mother. I was not about to die--especially not by her hands. Those nightmares I had all my life--they were her fault. But I guess I should thank her for plaguing me with such gory and horrifying nightmares; if I hadn't had them, I wouldn't have been able to drag that steak knife through her bones, or would have been able to handle her agonized screams.22

During all this, my heart remained beating at the same rate. The smell of blood affected me very little--it was as if it wasn't present. When I had finished, I dropped the knife into the remains of Mother's body. I didn't care what happened next. I just stared down at the blood and carnage covering my body.23

A nightmare?that's all that Mother's death was. A nightmare without an end. Now I don't dream; I can't fall asleep. Reality?reality is a nightmare. It's just a long, continuous nightmare. That's why I'm here, enclosed behind these white, fluffy walls and my arms restrained by this white, heavy jacket. Even without falling asleep, I see these walls, this jacket covered in blood--my blood. It's only a matter of time before I'm trusted long enough to tear myself apart. It's only a matter of time before I wake myself up from this nightmare?.24