Dreamer

Entry for "Quotation Inspiration: Official Contest"  June 2023 (Prompt: "A million dreams are keeping me awake."). 1412 words.


Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said 'far out, what a day, a year, a life it is!'
You know, well you know, you had it comin' to you
Now, there's not a lot I can do.


Rob sat patiently as his elder brother hummed softly to himself. He had long since learned to expect the unexpected in these visits. But he still jerked, sloshing some of his coffee on the floor, as Jack suddenly lifted his head and barked:

"Bloody stupid song! It's been in my head all day - it's driving me crazy."

Rob squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. These days he could never be sure if his brother was actually addressing him, talking to himself or talking to...well, there was no satisfactory way of ending that last thought.

"Um...what song is that, Jacky?" he replied, mopping up the spillage with a tissue.

"That damn hands-in-your-head song - was never off the radio when we were kids. Bloody Lindisfarne wasn't it? Dreamer, you stupid little dreamer. So now you put your head in your hands, oh no".

Rob looked towards the door as Jack steadily ramped up the volume, half-expecting one of the nursing staff to appear with a sedative and so bring today's visit to a premature end. He was ashamed to admit it, but part of him was disappointed when no-one appeared.

"I said 'far out, what a day, a year, a life it is!'"

"Jacky ...maybe you want to keep it down..."

"You know, well you know, you had it comin' to you. NOW, THERE'S NOT A LOT I CAN DO."

By that final line he had been nearly screaming, but now he slumped back in his chair, seemingly spent by the effort behind this outburst. After a minute or so, Rob figured it was safe to speak. He'd as likely as not get no sensible response, but what else was he to do?

"Supertramp, Jacky...it was Supertramp."

Jack made eye contact with him - a rarity these days. It looked like today was going to be one of those increasingly infrequent occasions when his brother was actually going to be "in the room" and not off in his own private world or drugged up to the eyeballs.

"Supertramp...yeah...that's right. Middle-of-the-road crap..."

Rob puffed out his cheeks as Jacky went back to humming. It was a terrible thing to think - and he'd certainly never say it to anyone - but these visits were becoming a major strain. He often wondered exactly what the point was. Who was he doing it for? Jacky? Half the time his brother was "orbiting Jupiter" (as their sister had so delicately put it) and barely knew he was there. The staff? Like they gave a damn one way or another...or even if they did, what did Rob care about their opinions? They were paid to do a job, not sit in judgement. Other family members? Gossiping neighbours? Who? Exactly who was he turning up here every other day, to either sit here in a bored silence or try desperately to keep up with a stream-of-consciousness torrent of drivel that barely merited the label "conversation"? But he knew he'd be here again next time, and the time after, and the time after that...until...well, until the end. And, much as he felt guilty thinking it, he wished the end would come sooner than later. The tumour was inoperable and it was growing...there was going to be no happy ending this time.

Dear God - in a sane society they'd put him out of his misery. He didn't know if it was the pressure of that thing against the brain or the cocktail of drugs he was on for pain relief, but Jack was rarely intelligible these days and so every rational interlude was to be treasured - you never knew if it was going to be the last.

"So, Jacky, how are you doing? Are they taking good care of you?"

"A million dreams are keeping me awake."

What the hell was he on about now?

"Um...so you're not sleeping so good, eh? Maybe they can give you something to help..."

"Something to help? SOMETHING TO HELP?" Jack dissolved into giggles that became steadily more hysterical until Rob realised with shock that somewhere along the way they had turned into tears.

"Something to help. Dear sweet Christ. They've pumped me full of so much crap to 'help' that I rattle every time I crack a fart. If I fell over, I'd burst open like a fucking piñata - there'd be pills of every shape, size and colour - we'd be ankle-deep in the bloody things."

The giggles briefly returned but quickly abated, while Rob just stared in astonishment. That little outburst was the most coherent thing he'd come out with in many weeks.

"They have these places, you know." Jack stared at the floor, barely audible, and Rob strained to hear what he was saying.

"Places, Jacky? What places?"

"On the continent. Switzerland, Holland too, I think. Pop a pill, go to sleep, never wake up."

He was pressing his temples as he spoke.

"Never wake...never wake...no more dreams...no more stupid bloody songs!"

He suddenly banged his head with the heel of his hand.

"Shut up ! Shut up! For the love of Christ shut the fuck up with that damn noise!"

"Jesus, Jacky. That's a bit drastic."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he'd realised how ludicrous they sounded. His brother started giggling again.

"Yeah...sure thing, Rob...we don't want to over-react."

Rob flushed slightly, unsure of what to say. The thought had of course crossed his mind, and his sister had brought the subject up at a family get-together just a couple of weeks ago, triggering an explosive outburst from their mother.

"You are not putting my son down like an animal!" had been her final, unequivocal, don't-you-dare-bring-this-subject-up-again declaration, and the rest of the day had passed in angry silence.

And now here was Jack raising the subject himself.

"I can't take it any more, Rob - it's like sitting on Death Row. I keep expecting Tom Hanks to come through the door and walk me down the green mile. I can't talk to the others about it - they just shut down the conversation with a lot of evasive shit about how I'll 'feel better in the morning'. Feel better in the morning, for Christ's sake! They just want to live in denial, while I sit here with this fucking thing growing in my head."

Rob sat quietly - he didn't want to interrupt the flow, as the chances of Jack picking up the thread of the conversation again were slim to say the least.

"The headaches are getting worse, so they pump more shit into me to control it and I spend most of my time sitting here like a zombie. By the time the end comes I won't know what day of the bloody week it is. I don't want it to end this way, Rob - going nuts with the pain or sitting like a fucking vegetable, shitting myself and drooling down my front. Make it stop, Robby...make it stop...make it stop..."

He broke down as his voice tailed off, his chest heaving and tears pouring down his cheeks. It was several minutes before the sobs tailed off into silence.

Jack stared vacantly at the floor. After sitting silently for a few minutes, Rob realised he had retreated into his own bubble universe again. Like a fleeting glimpse of the sun between dark rainclouds, the lucid episode was over. As the visiting time was almost up, there was no point in hanging around any longer - and he'd come to a decision anyway. Whether it would be popular with the rest of the family or not, he had some research to do - starting with how to get power of attorney over his brother. As Jack had said, it was time for the dreams to stop.

Walking down the corridor, he heard Jack growing ever fainter as he resumed his humming of that "stupid bloody song":

Take a dream on a Sunday
Take a life, take a holiday
Take a lie, take a dreamer
Dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream, dream along
Dreamer, dream and dream along
C'mon and dream, dream along
C'mon and dream, dream along


---
"Dreamer" song lyrics by Roger Hodgson of Supertramp, 1974.