KPMI:CIW nosleep

I. Have you ever killed someone before?

No, probably not. And if you have and you’re reading this, you probably got away with it, so congratulations to you, I suppose. From personal experience I can say it’s definitely not fun. It’s messy. There’s a lot of screaming, and sometimes a lot of blood, and well, when you’ve done it as many times as I have, I guess you just get used to it.

I’ve never actually killed anyone in real life, of course. It only happens in my dreams. Or at least, I thought so.

Every single night, I drift off to sleep, clutching desperately to the last semblance of consciousness before that too drifts away. And every single night, I find myself in a stranger’s home, swaddled in the dark, standing over their sleeping body. I don’t want to be there, but something in the back of my mind tells me that this is where I need to be, that every choice I’ve made in my life led to me standing there, in this exact house, over this exact person. And it’s that same something that tells me to find the nearest serviceable object and kill them with it.

I understand this all sounds like the ravings of a lunatic, but I’ve always been able to tell the difference between my dreams and reality. That was, until last night.

I remember staring up at the ceiling, then rolling over to face the wall, realizing it wasn’t the wall of my room, but someone else’s. I knew I wasn’t in my house, but in someone else’s, and I knew what I had to do. I knew why I was there, what purpose I served. I slowly surveyed the room, my eyes finally settling on a baseball bat. My face tightened, it wasn’t my favorite, but it would have to do. Wrapping my hand around the handle, feeling the smooth wood under my skin, I shook my head, dismissing the doubt that always crept into my head. This wasn’t real, and I knew what I had to do to wake up.

I pushed open the door, swiftly making my way down a hallway, feeling hard carpet under my feet, the sound of awakening birds floating through open windows, the smell of dead leaves and fresh rain filling my nostrils. Too real. It all seemed too real. I shook my head again, putting one foot in front of the other. This was a dream, and I was simply waking up.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I took a deep breath. It was never easy, but it was necessary. And most importantly, it wasn’t real.

I swung the door open, and took three long strides towards a bed illuminated only by the red numbers of an alarm clock. My arms raised above my head, wood twisting in damp hands, and then crashed down. I ignored the new sounds, the new feelings. The birds continued chirping, my arms raised again. The smell of dead leaves filled my nostrils, the bat rocketed down. I felt my shirt sticking to me, damp with sweat or something else, I did not know. I closed my eyes, praying that this would be the end. Tears rolling down my cheeks, I twisted my shoulders and swung with all my might.

My eyes snapped open with the sound of a crack, my ceiling slowly coming into focus. My breath was ragged, my sheets clinging to me, damp from sweat. I twisted, looking at the clock resting on my desk. It told me what I already knew from the golden light streaming through my windows. 7 AM. Groaning, I pulled the sheets off of my body, and screamed.

My shirt clung to my skin, soaked with not sweat, but crimson blood. Dripping off my arms and hands, making miniature pools on my gray sheets. Slowly opening my hands from clenched fists, a sob rose from my throat. Torn and raw, blood ran down my hands, splinters of wood jammed deep into my palms.

This brings me to why I’m writing all this down. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ve always woken up from my dreams with no evidence of my transgressions. Now, I’m not sure what’s real and what’s a dream. This can’t be real. I can’t actually be doing this. I’m a good person. I never asked for this, to find myself a psychotic killer on the other side of consciousness. I’m terrified. I don’t know what any of it means, or why this is happening to me, but I intend to find out.

I put the pen down, my hand shaking. I heard my brother’s voice floating up from the kitchen, an octave higher than usual, meaning he currently wasn’t getting what he wanted. I smiled, throwing my books and pen into my backpack. At least nothing else in my waking life had changed.

Swinging my backpack up onto my shoulder, I threw my laundry bin into the back of my closet, shuddering as I slammed the door shut. Jamming my hands into my pockets, I looked back at my bed, now devoid of sheets. Just before I turned to leave, something out of place caught my eye. Crouching down to look under my bed, my knees suddenly buckled, and I found myself on all fours, staring at a wooden handle poking out from underneath my mattress. A wooden handle with the brown stains of dried blood. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting off the churning in my stomach. When I opened them again, I was staring at bare floorboards, nothing under my bed except a few cardboard boxes filled with junk.

I shook my head violently, and quickly walked out of my room, slamming the door behind me. Was I actually losing my mind? If I was truly insane in my dreams, what was stopping me from being just as insane when I was awake? Wiping tears off of my face, and careful to hide my damaged hands, I entered the kitchen to start the day with my family.

     

II. My day was alright, thanks for asking. I didn’t kill anybody, so that’s good. At this point, I’m going to start counting that as a major accomplishment. Thankfully, I didn’t have any major psychotic breaks during school, although I did fantasize about killing my Biology teacher, but that’s nothing new. I was able to set up an appointment with my psychologist, Dr. Fisk, who is very aware of my recurring dreams, and by some miracle, still hasn’t committed me to a mental institution. I consider us friends.

My meeting with Dr. Fisk was by far the most interesting part of my day, so it’ll probably be the focus of this entry. What these entries are going to become, I have no idea. Maybe the story of a teenage kid losing his mind. Maybe that would make the bestseller list. Maybe.

Dr. Fisk’s office was pretty barren, aside from a desk, two long backed chairs, and the occasional mosaic painting, there wasn’t much in the way of decoration. Dr. Fisk himself was unremarkable as well, a man of average height, with short cropped brown hair and dull green eyes. Sitting back in his chair, he ran those eyes over me, pushing his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“More real, you say?” His voice boomed through the room, bouncing off empty walls. “Didn’t we face this problem once before?”

My hands tightened on the arms of the wooden chair. “Y...yes, but this was different. Much different.”

“How so?” Dr. Fisk’s eyes gazed deep into mine, searching for...something. Fear? Recognition?

“It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between what’s real…and what’s not. And I know what that sounds like, but I’m not crazy. I’m not.”

“Oh I agree wholeheartedly. You certainly aren’t crazy. A little on edge, perhaps, but that’s okay. Who isn’t these days? What I would like to focus on for today is the experience you had last year. The experience with your brother.”

My hands tightened even more, pain shooting through them as hard wood pressed against raw cuts.

“Why…why would we focus on that?” I forced the words out, trying hard to keep my voice from faltering. For some reason, every time I met with Dr. Fisk, he found a way to bring up the worst dream I ever had. The one that felt far too real. The night I killed my brother.

“Well, seeing as how the only other instance we can compare to your current one is…” Dr. Fisk’s voice began to fade away, replaced with a faint ringing. I hated thinking about this, I remember waking up sobbing and screaming, calling my brother’s name. Rushing to his room to make sure he was okay, that the horrifying things I saw, the things I did, weren’t real. I remember opening the door, and-

“Max.” Dr. Fisk’s voice echoed around the room, forcing me back into reality. “I want you to take a deep breath, look at me, and tell me what happened that night. Tell me what happened in your dream. What you see in front of you, me, you, this office, these are all real, Max. This is your reality. Not your dreams”

I inhaled, air shuttering into my lungs. I nodded once, then again, and began my retelling.

“I remember fighting the heavy weight of sleep, trying hard not to give in to what my body obviously needed. This was back when the dreams were relatively new, when I was still terrified by them every single night. I very vividly remember the darkness surrounding me, swallowing me up and taking me away. But when I opened my eyes again, I was still staring at my own ceiling. Not a stranger’s. Everything was the same, except for the urge I felt in the back of my head. The all-consuming voice, telling me there was only one way out of this dream. One way out of this world that wasn’t real, but all too familiar. There was nothing in my room. Nothing that could be put to use for my purposes. Realizing I was already moving without thinking, I let my body carry me down the hall, through my brother’s door, and to the side of his bed. I remember surveying the room, once again finding nothing, and feeling myself reach out for one of the pillows on his bed. I remember screaming at the voice in my head that this wasn’t right, that I didn’t care if this was a dream, I didn’t want to do it. But the voice simply told me that I was just waking up. I was just waking up, as I slammed the pillow down over his face, pressing hard, feeling his body start to-“

Twist under my weight, fighting to free himself. I tried to tell him that I was doing the same, just trying to free myself from the nightmare I was locked in. It slowly dawned on me that I was no longer talking to Dr. Fiske, but in my brother’s room, fully reliving the nightmare. Why was I there? Did I fall asleep, was this my reality? And why couldn’t I stop? I pressed the pillow down harder, telling myself I had to wake up, that I had to-

As quickly as it began, it was over, and I was back in Dr. Fisk’s office, staring into his green eyes. “What…what happened?” I asked, realizing I was out of breath.

Dr. Fisk raised an eyebrow, his chin resting on intertwined hands. “You tell me. You were recounting the dream with your brother, and then abruptly stopped and stared at me like I had two heads.”

I quickly told him what had happened, clutching at the chair to reassure myself I was really here, in this office.

“This is getting more serious than I imagined, Max. I am going to recommend an exercise, one that is used to dispel hallucinations in schizophrenic patients. It doesn’t always work, but I think you should give it a try.”

“Okay. Tell me.” I didn’t care if Dr. Fiske was implying I had schizophrenia, nor what that would entail down the road, I just wanted to know what was real, and what wasn’t.

“Whenever you think you’ve been…taken away from reality.” He paused, looking deep into my eyes. “I want you to close your eyes, and count down from five. Nice and slowly. As you’re counting down, think of whatever it is you may be seeing, and tell yourself that it’s not real. Think of what’s wrong with it. Your mind may be able to come up with images close to reality, but it won’t be able to mimic the real thing. If you can pinpoint those differences, however small, that’s when you’ll know you aren’t in reality. It takes some work, and a whole lot of concentration, but it will help, I promise.”

“Alright. I’ll try it. Thank you, Dr. Fisk, for understanding.” I slowly rose to my feet, glancing at my watch. It was already 7:00? “I have to go now, or my parents will kill me for missing dinner.”

Dr. Fisk smiled up at me, nodding his head. “Of course, Max. I know how parents can be. Have a nice night, and I’ll see you next week.”

This brings me to right now. It is currently 11 o’clock. And my bed is starting to look more comfortable than terrifying. I’ll make an entry again tomorrow, and hopefully, I’ve been armed with a way to beat these dreams, or at the very least make them manageable.

Glancing out the window, I realized there was only a sliver of moon hanging in the sky, almost as if it were winking at me, knowing what my night would entail. With a sigh, I shut the lamp on my desk off, plunging myself into darkness. Rolling into bed, I pulled the sheets tightly around me, shivering despite the lack of cold. Dr. Fisk’s words echoed around my head, just as they did around his empty office. “Your mind may be able to come up with images close to reality, but it won’t be able to mimic the real thing…” With his voice still ringing in my ears, I felt myself being pulled away from consciousness, floating into the darkness around me.

     

III. I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. I had everything down to a system. I would fall asleep, kill someone, and wake up. It was that simple, right? I always thought I just struck out in the dreams department. So what if I had really messed up thoughts while I was asleep, I couldn’t control that, right? I stand by the fact that I’m a good person. I would never hurt anybody. At least not while I was awake. But right now, I am very much awake, and things are going wrong. Dr. Fisk can’t help me anymore, not without locking me away. And I can’t have that. No no no. I can’t go away. I know what they do to people in places like that. I’ve read the stories. None of this makes sense. I’m awake. I’m a good person. Writing it down feels good. It feels real. Not real, but it helps.

Last night, I woke up in a stranger’s house, just like usual. Part of me was relieved it wasn’t my own house, but I knew that wasn’t likely. It had never happened again, not after that night. I slowly paced around the room, already knowing what I had to do.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls, along with a stone fireplace that still glowed with the embers from a fire earlier in the night. The room was pleasantly warm, the windows shut tight against the autumn chill. My eyes were drawn to the fire poker hanging next to the fireplace, a smile slowly spread across my face. Why was I smiling? I didn’t enjoy this. Not in the slightest. I wrapped my hands around the piece of iron, pulling it off the wall and heading out of the study. The voice constantly whispered in my head, telling me where to go, assuring me I was going to wake up.

Sliding through the shadows of a narrow hallway, I glanced over a railing to my left. The voice urged for me to continue forward, but something had caught my eye. Moonlight flooded through large bay windows, filling the foyer of the house with silver light. A full moon hung proudly in the sky, its glow challenging the dim twinkling of the millions of stars around it. I felt something desperately try to reach the surface of my thoughts, but the voice in the back of my head snapped at it, and urged me forward like a slave driver.

Putting one foot in front of the other, I made my way to a tall wooden door. Tightening my grip on the fire poker, I took a deep breath. This was never easy, but it was necessary.

I swung the door open, and took three long strides towards a bed illuminated only by the silver glow of moonlight. My arms raised above my head, and I stopped. Gazing up from the twisted sheets of the bed were a pair of green eyes, encased by a pair of thick rimmed glasses.

“Dr. Fisk?” I stammered. Suddenly, his voice echoed through my head.

“Dreams…mimic reality…never the real thing…the differences…”

His voice mixed with the one echoing from the darkness, whispering that it would be okay, to just swing the iron gripped tightly in my hands. That’s how I would wake up, that’s the way I’ve always woken up. As the two voices increased in volume, shouting back and forth inside of my head, I realized that a third had joined them, my own. I felt the scream come ripping out of my throat as I swung the piece of metal as hard as I could, crushing thick rimmed glasses and bone. Again and again, I let my body take control, giving into the screaming whispers coming from the darkness. When there was nothing left to recognize, I fell over, sobbing, cradling the blood soaked fire poker to my chest, waiting to wake up. Waiting and waiting, listening to the whispers come out of the darkness, soothing whispers, telling me it was okay, telling me I had done well.

When I opened my eyes, I was still lying on the floor, covered in blood, moonlight flooding in from wide open windows, making what I had done all too clear. A beautiful mess of blood and twisted blankets still swam in vision. Tears came rolling down my face, shiny rivers forging through layers of someone else’s blood.

“Five.” I gasped, taking fistfuls of carpet tightly into my hands, squeezing my eyes closed tightly, colored spots dancing against the inside of my eyelids.

“Four.” An image of what had once been Dr. Fisk flashed against the dark canvas, my own mind accusing me for what I had done.

“Three.” A small crescent moon, giving off no light, winking across the sky to tell me what it knew.

“Two.” A full moon, glowing brightly, illuminating the darkness.

“One.” My eyes shot open, air rushing into my lungs.

I flung myself out of bed, crashing to the floor. Staring at the hardwood underneath me, I knew I was home. Reaching for my desk, I pulled myself up, staring out of the window at a crescent moon, the stars twinkling brightly around it. I immediately started writing, and that brings me to now.

Why didn’t I wake up after I had killed him? It obviously wasn’t real. It was a dream. It had to be. I did what Dr. Fisk asked, and it worked. I woke up. This was real. Fisk was right, and the dark voice was wrong. I was awake now. This was real. It had to be. I woke up in my own bed. But deep in the back of my head, I heard it. Calling to me from the darkness of my own room. Telling me to wake up. To go downstairs, and wake up.

     

IV. The kitchen was dark, but I could still make out the shapes masked in shadow. I stumbled my way along the wall until my hand found the light switch. With a sinking feeling, I pressed down, squinting as harsh light flooded the room. Slumped over in a chair was my brother, skin blue, eyes bulged open, staring at nothing.

“No,” The word came out as a whisper, and was lost with the countless others filling the shadows, echoing through my head.

“I didn’t do this.” Another whisper, completely lost. Tears began flooding my eyes, distorting my vision.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I had awoken from my nightmare, but only to find myself in another one.

“Why...why did you do this?” My brother’s voice came echoing from the table . Why did you do this to me?” His voice came as a harsh whisper, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace.

“Alex…” My voice strained, “It was a dream, it was all a dream. I would never hurt you, I love you. I would never...” My voice was lost among the thousand whispers echoing through the darkness.

“This isn’t real.” I said to the shadows. They didn’t respond.

“This is another dream.” Nothing.

I walked over to the window by the sink, staring into the sky. The moon was disappearing over the horizon, the sky turning into a dull gray. There wasn’t a single star in sight.

The house across the street, the McNaughton’s, stood tall, casting a shadow across the street. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

The McNaughton’s house was painted red. This house was blue. It wasn’t the McNaughton’s house. This wasn’t real.

“Five.” There were normally four chairs around the kitchen table. Here there were three.

“Four.” The light switch was supposed to be by the stairs. It was across the room.

“Three.” My mother always kept pictures on the refrigerator. This one was bare.

“Two.” There wasn't a single star in the sky.

“One.” My brother was dead.

     

V. Light poured through my eyelids as they slowly opened, searing my eyes and causinga groan to slip through my lips.

“He’s awake.” A woman’s voice. It sounded distorted, like she was miles away and underwater. It took a few minutes for my vision to focus, and when it started to, I was staring at a bright white ceiling. I tried to roll over, but something was holding me back.

“Max?” The same woman’s voice, but much clearer. Much closer. “Max, there are some people here to see you. Why don’t you say hello?”

I turned my head, a nametag swam into focus. “Kaitlyn Winters, Nurse.” Under that, in long, curvy writing, “Kings Park Mental Institution: Criminally Insane Ward”

“What..?” I tried to say, but it felt like I had one hundred cotton balls shoved in my mouth.

“Hey buddy, how are you feeling today?” A man’s voice. I turned my head, or tried to, and the man’s face came into focus.

“Dad? Is this a dream? Is this another dream?” His face turned from happiness to sorrow, disappointment plastered on top of what was once a smile.

I heard a woman’s sob rise from the corner of the room, and I attempted to turn my head again.

“Mom? Is that you? Mom? Where’s Alex?”

The sob gave way to full on crying, a wail rising from the corner of the room. At least it was bright. No shadows in this room.

“This was a mistake, we shouldn’t have come.” The man’s voice again. “We’ll….we’ll try again next year.” There was a rustling noise, and two shapes got up, heading towards the door.

“Happy Birthday, son.” With that, there was a loud metallic bang, and the woman whose nametag read Kaitlyn Winters was forcing something into my mouth.

“It’s time to go back to sleep, sweetie.” She was saying. Whatever it was tasted like cranberries.

“No, no, it was all a dream.” I muttered, watching the last shape leave the room. “It was a dream. It’s all a dream. Just one big dream.”

Another metallic bang, and then the sound of metal sliding on metal. The bright light was replaced with darkness, swallowing me whole.

I looked into the shadows, and they looked back at me. I smiled. This was just another dream, and I had to wake up.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Submitted October 21, 2015 at 03:31AM by Lambeau_Leap http://ift.tt/1PF2FJL nosleep