Nightmares, Not Dreams

Word Count: 2,074

         I don't have dreams. I have nightmares. I don't mean the vacuum cleaner comes alive and tries to suck me up or the dishes stage a revolt and try to shove me into the dishwasher kind of nightmares. Mine are far, far worse.

         Last night was the worst one that I've had for a long time. I find myself very leery about going to sleep tonight. I've learned from experience that if I keep myself awake, it's all the worse, all the longer, when I finally do sleep. Being awake is like being prisoner sitting chained in cell, just waiting to hear the footsteps of my torturer returning. There's no doubt the torturer will return, the dreaded approaching footsteps are my nodding head and heavy eyes. The waiting is a torture unto itself.

         My dreams are utterly real. The setting is sometimes some fantasy world, but everything is as real to me as is this waking reality. In fact, if pressed, I couldn't be sure I'm not dreaming now. One reoccurring nightmare I have is of a world straight out of J.R.R. Tolkien's mind - dragons, elves, goblins, wizards and all the rest. Another is some barren wasteland. I'm not sure where it is or what's going on there, perhaps I'll try and explain it another time.

         Last night's is fresh in my mind, and I'm hoping putting it to words will vanquish it. The setting is simple; I'm sitting with my back against a wall. The room is very dark; I can't make out any details. I realize I'm exhausted and in pain. My mind is hazy with no recollection of what's happened or where I am. Sometimes, I seem to step into another person, complete with all his or her memories, but not this time.

         The pain is sharpest from my side and legs, I realize I'm wounded. My arms move as if covered in weights. The effort to lift one to touch my side is incredibly taxing. The light touch of my fingers sends lightening spikes of pain through my body. I groan in agony and decide touch wasn't worth the effort.

         The only sound I can hear is my now labored breathing. I'm wearing some sort of helmet with a visor, a darkened visor. I can see my breath fogging it. I lull my head from side to side, no better idea of where I am or how I got hurt. The pain in my side settles back to an urgent ache. I begin to think this might be a short nightmare; I might well bleed to death.

         I can't move my legs at all; they just ache. I know something disastrous happened to me. I try to focus on the past, try to recall what happened. I get vague images of a ship, a space vessel. The helmet and visor I'm wearing make sense, it's a spacesuit. I get impressions of some sort of battle or, perhaps, I'm just projecting my thoughts into things, making things up to fit the meager details I have.

         My eyes seem to be getting more accustomed to the dark, perhaps the lights just went out. I think there's an open door about ten feet in front of me. It looks like it leads to some sort of hallway. Next to me is a table and an overturned chair. I let my head fall forward, looking down at my lap for the first time. I'm shocked to see a metal beam lying across my legs. A wave of panic floods me, but I'm too tired to struggle. The scream of my voice is, even to me, nothing more than a whisper. I fight the urge to vomit.

         The ship being in a battle starts to make more sense. If we were hit and I was thrown against table and/or chair could cause the wound to my side. Perhaps I broke some ribs? The beam explains the legs. The realization that I am going to die in this place fills me.

         I'm helpless. There's no way I can move the beam. I find myself thinking I hope I bleed to death quickly; that it would be preferable to drift off into a sea of unconsciousness than suffer like this. Sitting here in endless pain would be intolerable. I debate trying to take my helmet off. If the ship has lost pressure, that'd be the quickest way to go.

         I flop my head back against the wall and try to sort out my choices. The pain in my legs is worse, much worse, now that I've seen the beam. I'm sweating and my breathing seems much too shallow. I wonder if I'm going into shock.

         Part of me wonders if all my life on 'Earth' had been a dream, some unconscious delusion suffered right after the beam landed on me. I want to cry, unable to truly decide which is real and what is dream. The pain pulls me back from that philosophical debate; it seems to have no interest in what I consider to be real.

         I'm startled to see movement in the hallway. A surge of hope fills me, others are alive on ship! Surely there's some sort of tracking system to locate life signs, I've seen it on all the sci-fi shows.

         The form moves past my door as I try to lift an arm and wave. It won't raise more than a foot or so off the ground. I try to scream, but manage to just whisper again. I'm so weak, so tired, I can't even scream for help.

         The hope is gone in an instant. I'm left wallowing in pain, despair and misery. I realize now that I couldn't take my helmet off; I'm too weak to lift my arms. I'm comforted that if I'm this weak, I won't be conscious much longer.

         My range of vision seems less, what I can see seems fuzzier than it was a short time ago. The form comes back and stands in the doorway or is it just a delusion. Unsure, I lift my hand; the whole arm is too much effort. I wonder if it's humanoid or some kind of alien. It looks like a humanoid. A thought flutters through my head, am I a humanoid? No time for such things now.

         It enters the room, head looking all about, as if trying to determine if the room is safe. I lift my other hand and waggle it. The form steps towards me, clearing walking on two legs, proof enough for me that it's humanoid. I truth, I don't care what it is, as long as it can help me.

         As strongly as I was considering how to dispatch myself mere seconds ago, I'm now fervently determined not to die. This is the fickle whimsy of my mind.

         It reaches a hand out, touching my helmet as it crouches next to me. I push my head against the hand, staring from my dark visor to its. I can't make out anything through the tint and I doubt it can see my face. It lifts some box-like handheld tool and holds it in front of my chest.

         Visions of 'Star Trek' fill my mind and I fight the urge to greet this stranger with, "Bones! Tell Scotty to beam me to the Enterprise!"

         The head tilts, considering the information on the tool. A finger taps my head, on the side above my ears. I do nothing, unsure what's going on. It taps again and then points to where its own ears, if it's humanoid, would be.

         I understand and give a small shake of my head. I can't hear anything it's trying to say. It hooks the tool back to its belt and seems like it's going to get up and leave me. I'm filled with dread. Why doesn't it stay with me and summon help or try to move the beam itself?

         I summon my strength and reach my left arm out. It's a feeble attempt, but the gesture seems to be understood. It grasps my hand and squeezes it, reassuring me. I'm sure our eyes are locked, black visor to black visor. I groan, trying to say something, anything. I can't manage to form words. A voice inside my head taunts me that I'm trying to speak English, not the language this being uses.

         Frustrated I squeeze its hand, shocked at how meaningful the contact is to me. It lets go and I want to scream not to leave, as that's clearly the intention. It must sense my worry, my fear, how near to death I truly am. It places its hand on the side of my visor. Though it's not touching my face, in my mind I can feel the warmth of the hand on my cheek.

         I start to cry, to softly sob. I know it's going to leave. I must be injured too badly, the beam too heavy to move. It's going to let me die here alone.

         The hand softly pets the side of my visor, stunningly tender to me. I'm assured that it cares for me. Perhaps we know each other. I can see colored markings on its chest and above the visor on the helmet. I've no idea what they mean.

         A final pet and it stands up, staring down at me. I look up helpless, sobbing, knowing I'm going to die.

         The ship gives a massive shutter, sending ripples of sharp pain from both my legs and side. I groan in agony with a dash of terror mixed in. The shutter can mean only one thing; the ship is going to break up. I know this. I'm certain of it. Flashes of diagrams and schematics of the ship fill my mind. I find it quite ironic to realize that I know this vessel so very well. I'm filled with knowledge about how the propulsion system works, communications, and all the rest.

         I force my eyes to open and to focus again. I expect to see my visitor gone, fleeing for its life. Instead it's kneeling again, visor pressed to my visor.

         We must know each other, perhaps lovers? I can hear the faintest flutter of static in my ear. If I could move my arms, I could fix my communications link in moments with my new found knowledge. My frustration level rises. I'd die happy if I could just know who this being is, what's being said and to respond. I curse the broken communications link.

         I'm sure it's crying too. I imagine I can hear it. Fate it seems is overly cruel tonight.

         The ship shudders again and it knows it can wait no longer. With the gentlest of visor taps, a kiss, it's up and running out the door, unwilling or perhaps unable to bring itself to look back at its soon to be dead friend/lover.

         I am alone again. I wish it'd never have found me.

         I'm left to wonder how much air this suit has left; I don't really care, just wondering how long I have to endure this hell. I know fully charged, I'd have over eight hours. I resign myself to this fate. I doubt the ship will last much longer. My fear is now that once it breaks up, I'll survive and drift aimlessly until I suffocate. At least the beam will be off my legs. I don't dare hope I'll be rescued from the debris. In truth, I hope there's an explosion that incinerates me.

         This was my dream last night. It was utterly life-like in all aspects my words don't do it justice. I just sat there helpless on the ship for I don't know how long. I had no way to mark time. The ship shuddered, I could hear it groaning in my head. I was thankful that there was nothing to convey the actual sounds of it breaking to pieces, only the vibrations.

         I woke up in a cold sweat. I'm sure ribs on my right side are broken, shattered from colliding with the table. There are massive bruises all over my upper legs, I'm fearful to move then, thinking they are actually smashed.

         Nothing is broken, but the bruises are real, painfully real. Just some little mementos from an exhausting night's sleep. I'm glad to be able to rest now that I'm awake.

         Like I said, I don't have dreams; I have nightmares.