Insomnia

Chapter 1: Nightmares

It had been over four years since I'd really slept, and I suspected it was killing me.

Tonight, finding someone other than Mr. Flint to make eye contact with before going to bed seemed like morework than it was worth. Besides, he was just an old man, the janitor of the Oakville Library. I'd seen the dreams of men like him before. The most exciting part was usually the new lawn mower they were using. The instant his dream began, though, I knew I'd been dead wrong. 

My surroundings were heavy with a strange energy, lending an ominous feel to the air that made me instantly claustrophobic. 

This man was nothing like the others. 

A woman sprawled across a bed with one thin arm thrown over her eyes, her jeans tattered at the bottom from dragging on the ground. Her white tank top was tugged upon one side, leaving her stomach bare, exposed. I thought she was pretty hot until I noticed the wrinkles around her mouth, the ring on her finger, and the clusters of gray hairs along her hairline. I groaned under my breath; sexy mom dreams are really not my thing. 

I looked around at the room, becoming wary of the amount of detail. The walls were light green; there were tiny pink and blue flowers on the sheets. I heard the thunder before the smell of damp wood and perfume filled my nostrils. Rain fell through the open window, pooling on the cedar chest below. The heavy green drapes rustled as they framed the darkness outside. 

Each sense came like a wave, crashing over me. It was too clear. Even as I could feel my body tensing, I told myself to relax. Nothing bad had happened yet—but this much detail meant it was a memory and combined with the weight in the air, it was rarely a good sign. 

I knew I'd see Mr. Flint soon. The dreamer always showed up last, like the brain had to build the scene before thrusting the dreamer into it. One of many things I'd learned along the way about the dream world. It had taken me a long time to figure out even a basic knowledge of the way dreams worked. I didn't think I'd ever understand it all. I'd tried for months before I realized that no dreamers could see me. Even when I stood right in front of them and screamed at the top of my lungs—they never knew I was there. 

Kind of ironic that I knew so much about this world of dreams considering I never slept. Well, my body did, but my brain . . . not so much. My dreams were no longer mine. They'd been taken and replaced with this. I was just someone who watched, a passive observer in the minds of others, seeing what they saw, feeling what they felt. I knew their dreams like I knew my own skin. This was my domain, but I had no control. I was a king with no power. 

At least my kingdom was generally an interesting place. I always found it interesting the way dreams were built in layers. It was like the brain got bored constructing only one dream at a time so there was always more going on under the surface. 

I landed mostly in the layer closest to reality for some reason. At least, it seemed that way. I didn't know for sure, but it was the only explanation I could come up with for why I often saw fantasies and memories instead of the alternative. I still saw the bizarre stuff, but it was less frequent. Judging from the lack of leprechauns or talking furniture around me now, this dream was just another demonstration of that fact. I didn't get the subtext, the metaphors; I got the real thing.

The thunder rumbled again and I sighed, waiting for him to appear. I just wanted to get it over with. I didn't like watching memories. Somehow it felt even more intrusive than watching fantasies. Everything in a memory was crystal clear, with very little of the haziness that literally hovered over other dreams I saw. After years of watching, I could easily recognize the level of focus, of detail that formed a memory dream. This wasn't a creation of Mr.Flint's mind; this was his life. His brain's twisted analysis of his past thickened the air around me, like a million observations given at once.