In my dream I woke up with a jolt, gasping for breath like I'd just run a marathon. After the unexplained ache in my lungs faded I looked up, eyes meeting with the only other person I've ever seen in my dreams. They're not a human person but they're still the only being who talks back to me.
They look something like a human, if humans were made of oatmeal filled balloons that had been stitched together by a child in the vague approximation of a person. Misshapen fingers rhythmically tapped against their tumour-encrusted thigh as we stared at each other across some strange approximation of a waiting room, me still confused and them looking rather fed up.
With a deep and weary sigh they said "You know, if you keep coming back here you'll forget how to wake up and then we'll both be stuck. You hear me?" and when I tried to respond, finding I could only move one hand to mimic their tapping, the look of annoyance on their face morphed into fear.
"How long have you been able to - you know what? It doesn't matter, time is the only thing that matters and if you can move then we're running out so wait there, no moving, okay?"
I moved my finger, drawing out the word yes onto my thigh. As if I could do anything else.
They rolled themselves out of their chair, every inch roiling and writhing into an upright position as they stumbled towards me, past me and opened a door I hadn't even realised existed. I had never been able to move before, I'd always just sat there while they talked to me, or rather at me while I tried to figure out what was going on.
They came back with a wheelchair and unceremoniously bundled me into it, fidgeting with my arms and legs as if they weren't sure exactly what they were or how they were meant to sit. After a few moments they gave up with a huff, leaving me awkwardly sitting on one hand, the other free to tap against the arm of the wheelchair.
As they pushed me through the door I'd never seen before, they began talking again.
"Okay... I'll make this short and simple. You've been coming here for eight years and now you might be physically coming here instead of projecting your dream state and that's bad. Really. Bad. So I'm taking you to the exit and when we get there I'm going to give you a knife and you're going to kill the version of you that isn't real. Whichever one of you that may be. I've got no clue."
By the time that had sunken in I'd been wheeled right up to a seemingly endless mirror and was now staring at myself, soundly asleep in my room, in my bed. They handed me a knife, just like they said, and gave the chair enough of a shove to send me into my room to gently bump into my bed.
I don't remember who I stabbed, the me that slept or the me that in the wheelchair but I haven't had any dreams since.
They look something like a human, if humans were made of oatmeal filled balloons that had been stitched together by a child in the vague approximation of a person. Misshapen fingers rhythmically tapped against their tumour-encrusted thigh as we stared at each other across some strange approximation of a waiting room, me still confused and them looking rather fed up.
With a deep and weary sigh they said "You know, if you keep coming back here you'll forget how to wake up and then we'll both be stuck. You hear me?" and when I tried to respond, finding I could only move one hand to mimic their tapping, the look of annoyance on their face morphed into fear.
"How long have you been able to - you know what? It doesn't matter, time is the only thing that matters and if you can move then we're running out so wait there, no moving, okay?"
I moved my finger, drawing out the word yes onto my thigh. As if I could do anything else.
They rolled themselves out of their chair, every inch roiling and writhing into an upright position as they stumbled towards me, past me and opened a door I hadn't even realised existed. I had never been able to move before, I'd always just sat there while they talked to me, or rather at me while I tried to figure out what was going on.
They came back with a wheelchair and unceremoniously bundled me into it, fidgeting with my arms and legs as if they weren't sure exactly what they were or how they were meant to sit. After a few moments they gave up with a huff, leaving me awkwardly sitting on one hand, the other free to tap against the arm of the wheelchair.
As they pushed me through the door I'd never seen before, they began talking again.
"Okay... I'll make this short and simple. You've been coming here for eight years and now you might be physically coming here instead of projecting your dream state and that's bad. Really. Bad. So I'm taking you to the exit and when we get there I'm going to give you a knife and you're going to kill the version of you that isn't real. Whichever one of you that may be. I've got no clue."
By the time that had sunken in I'd been wheeled right up to a seemingly endless mirror and was now staring at myself, soundly asleep in my room, in my bed. They handed me a knife, just like they said, and gave the chair enough of a shove to send me into my room to gently bump into my bed.
I don't remember who I stabbed, the me that slept or the me that in the wheelchair but I haven't had any dreams since.
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