The Dreamer

Inspired by an assignment on Plato's Cave.

 

            In his dreams, Jack imagines he is happy. He is celebrated and adored by everyone who knows his name.

            It is for this reason that he decides never to wake up.

+++

            Three days of continuous sleep pass before anyone thinks to call for help. Worried faces – his girlfriend, a curious doctor, perhaps his mother – loom over the bed, muttering about the absurdity of it all.

            “He said something about lucid dreaming, but I never thought…” The girl’s voice wavers.

            The doctor nods sagely. “…That he’d choose his dreams over you?”

+++

            To begin with, Jack had been terrified of the power he had over his subconscious. His logical, ever-rational self couldn’t help pointing out that it was inherently unnatural to control such a wild thing as dreams.

            That voice was quickly silenced with the prospect of oak-lined streets in autumn, kneeling children with sticks of chalk in their grubby hands, and the nostalgic hum of an ice cream truck as it ambles through the neighborhood. This is the place he frequents, the childhood he remembers. He’s seven or eight, and still innocent enough to enjoy life with the fervor he lost in high school. He plays with his neighborhood friends: Lucy, who grew up to be a power-hungry doctor; Mitch, who killed his girlfriend when her eyes began to stray; and Nik, who killed himself when they were twelve. None of that touches them here. Their only concern now is whose turn it is on Lucy’s tricycle, or how to evenly divide the chocolate bar they bought with their pooled change.

            Jack likes hopscotch. He always has, ever since he learned how to jump; it makes him feel like a kangaroo. His legs are powerful for his age, his mother tells him. She asks if he might like to run for a team when he grows up, and he asks if there is a team for hopscotch. She shakes her head solemnly, looking like she wants to laugh, but doesn’t have the heart. It’s just as well, he thinks. He’s too good for a team; the other guys would never have a chance.

+++

            Here, in this reality he’s shunned, the worry has bled from the faces to be replaced by bitter frustration. They plead with his still form, beat loose fists against his chest. The girl has to be taken forcibly from the room when her hysterical shrieks begin to irritate the old doctor.

            Physically, there is nothing wrong with Jack. He is as healthy as he was at sixteen. However, though it is his mind that is ill – that is dying – the doctor quietly tells Jack’s mother that if they cannot save him soon, his muscles will begin to atrophy and his brain will shut down, and Jack will be permanently disabled; if not dead. Silently, she weeps.

+++

            In the vast wheat field behind his house, there is a barn, abandoned and forgotten. Except by Jack and his friends, who spend their long summer afternoons in its musty loft. Hay still litters the floor, scratching their skin when they lie on their stomachs, legs kicking in the air as they tell each other stories. Jack likes it here, likes the stale smell of horses, likes the sunlight that filters in through cracks in the roof. He imagines living here, running away from his family and their ‘respectability’ and being happy forever in this barn. It would be a dream come true, he tells himself.

            This day is smoldering, the air thick enough to kiss their sweaty shoulders as they trudge through the cropped field. Lucy hums a lullaby to herself; Nik scoops up flat stones from the hot soil. The fading red barn looms in the distance, dancing in the oily lines of heat. Mitch and Jack smirk sidelong at each other before taking off at breakneck speed leaving the woeful moans of Nik behind them. The wind is refreshingly cool against their faces. They collapse in the shadow of the barn, laughing and choking on air as they wait for the others. Nik pouts, glowering with teary eyes at his friends; Lucy clumsily wraps an arm around his shoulders and she whispers gentle placating words. Together, they shove the door open enough to allow them through, wincing as one at the protesting shriek of the hinges.

            After climbing the creaky ladder, they stretch out in the loft, Jack in the dwindling pile of hay. He bites a piece between his teeth, waggling  it at his friends. Nik drops his stones over the edge, enjoying the sharp crack each one makes as it meets the concrete floor below. A mockingbird sings from under the eaves.

            “Do you guys ever think about growing up?” Jack asks; he does not have to fight to keep his tone innocent. His friends look sharply at him.

            “Why would you think about growing up?” Lucy asks carefully.

Eyes focused on the beams in the ceiling, Jack shrugs. “Just wondering. Who knows what could happen.” Except me, he does not think. Nik drops another stone, and the electric tension breaks.

            That night, Jack lies in bed, superhero sheets pulled up to his chin. The stars twinkle outside his bedroom window. He is not quite asleep, and so cannot attribute the voice he hears to a dream. Indeed, he could not, when the sweet cream tone is so achingly familiar. His eyes widen as the entreaties hum in his ears.

            “Jack, can you hear me?” He feels himself nodding. “It’s me, Annie. The doctor said you might be able to hear –“The words stop, and she takes a shuddering breath. “We need you to wake up, Jack. This is ridiculous. You need…We need you here. Life is so much better than you think.”

            Jack holds his breath, but nothing follows. He turns in bed, burying his face in his pillow. It had been easy to forget that outside existence here, but now, confronted with the voice of his girlfriend, cracking with grief as though she’s already begun to mourn him –

            His heart pounds in his chest. That rational voice whispers coward, and that curse settles round his neck like a loyal albatross.

+++

            In the comfortable confines of his office, the doctor begins to draw up a case summary. He admits that a situation like this one would be better in the hands of a psychologist; but he’s never seen anything like this, and so can’t bear to pass it off.

            If his young companion can be trusted, Jack O’Connor has been unconscious for just under two months, which is long enough to make any doctor cringe with dread. He knows this ordeal will not end well, and he suppresses a shudder at the thought of the girl, distraught.

            Perhaps a psychologist would be better suited, after all.

+++

            Days pass, but the voice does not. It creeps in just when he thinks it’s gone, guilting him into sleeplessness. His friends notice this sudden change in his mood; more than once, he catches Lucy glaring pointedly at Mitch and Nik. After a while, he does not leave his house. His mother thinks he has the flu, and brings cool drinks and a wet flannel to his bedside. Visitors are turned away.

            Lucy, Mitch and Nik loll about in the loft, seemingly bereft without Jack. Nik rubs a stone between his fingers. Reaching his fingers to the sky, Mitch blows out a harsh breath.

            “He’s drifting.” It is not a question.

            “He needs time.” Lucy examines her fingernails.

            “It’s been months!” Mitch smacks the flats of his hands against the floor beneath him.

            “If you think that’s long enough –“

            “He’s fading, I can feel it. We need to end it, before he does.”

            Lucy eyes him seriously. Nik drops the stone, eyes going round when it shatters upon impact.

+++

            The moonlight is iridescent. Jack shivers and blinks; he cannot remember how he got to the loft. The door is closed and latched and an inherent foreboding closes over him. Over the blood rushing high in his ears, he hears three stones dropped, precisely, behind him. His lungs turn to ice.

            “You promised, Jack.” Lucy’s voice is flat. He opens his mouth to plead, to swear any oath. “You promised and you betrayed us –“

            “And far too easily,” Mitch puts in. Jack can feel the dangerous anger sparking the air.  The ghost of the voice clings to his skin, and he feels warm.

            “Nik, do it,” Lucy hisses, suddenly anxious. When the hands press against his shoulders, Jack surrenders. His feet stumble under him as he falls toward the edge. He imagines he hears a sob as he flips through the air, ringing in his head with a sort of sickening awareness. He gasps in that second before his bones smash against the mercilessly solid floor, shattering with one final crack.

+++

            The doctor leans back, face solemn, eyes whispering his sympathies. The girl bursts into hysterical shrieks, as he’d predicted. The young man’s mother stares unseeingly at her son’s body; in her head, she hears his laughter as it had been when he was a child, hopping round the house like a kangaroo.

Reviews

[SRMarx]

This is a very engaging story. Your writing is very descriptive and articulate. You might want to expand some of the scenes to slow the pace down, but otherwise, well-done!

[Wildecat]

The imagery in this story is fantastic, totally enjoyed reading this story reminded me of some of the things I did and experienced as a boy. Well done.