Nightmares, Not Dreams, p2

Word Count: 1,923

It's hard to explain to someone just how much I hate to sleep. They look at me with these odd, not-quite-understanding eyes and furrow their eyebrows. A few give a nod, as if to say they understand, but I know they don't.

I've given up trying to explain it. I just say I have insomnia.

This, or course, makes no sense. I'm clearly on the verge of falling asleep 90% of the time and always trying to come up with something to keep me awake.

The dream I fear the most is one I've had only once. Perhaps fear isn't the right word, but it's the one that lingers and bothers me the most. Self-introspection is not as fun as it's cracked up to be.

It starts with me walking in this castle. Being a dream, it's no ordinary castle, but more like something MC Escher drew. Stairways and walkways branch off at impossible angles. It seems oddly comforting that regardless of the oddities I see around me, up is up and down is down to me. I can drop something, no matter the orientation of anything else I see and it falls down to my feet.

It's equally disconcerting to step onto something that's rotated at something like a 90 degree angle from yourself.

It's even more disconcerting the first time you look up and realize that you're now upside down compared to where you were twenty minutes ago. Still, when something is dropped, it falls to my feet and not past my head.

I wandered the castle exploring it as best I could and trying to keep track of the never ending labyrinth of passages and stairs.

The walls and floors, such as they are, are simple grey stone. No art or decorative marks of any sort. No windows. No torches line the walls, but there's easily enough light to see by. There is, perhaps, the faintest hint of a musty order, but perhaps it's just what I think a castle should smell like.

Exploring soon becomes dull. I'm hopelessly lost and wondering just how long I'm going to be here.

I've found that time in my dreams is completely unrelated to the time I'm asleep. I suppose this is common enough to everyone else. A five minute nap could produce a dream lasting for hours, well in dream time anyway.

I pick a random spot with a good view of lots of upside down and sideways passages and rest against a cool stone wall. Sort of like sitting at the entrance to a grand hall that showcases the absurdness of the place. Slowly a sense of peace creeps over me. It's oddly soothing to try and imagine workers building such a place. I mentally pity the foreperson that had to sort out on 2 dimensional blueprints what was supposed to go where.

As my mind considers the inherent problems with building an impossible building, I notice something moving out of the corner of my eye. It's a person I assume, though it's far enough way to be an ant scurrying along. I watch its progress. I can't quite bring myself to think of it as a he or she.

It moves through my field of view off to my left and above me. It passes out of sight and I'm tempted to run and yell, but which way to run? It reappears moving along at a plodding pace from below me. My head shakes as I try to understand how it got from above me to below me so quickly, but clearly this place has its own sense of logic. The shape is bigger, much bigger than before and is clearly a person. I fancy calling out, but I don't want to destroy the magical feeling I get watching it walk.

I'm transfixed following its path from a level walkway to a sideways staircase. It moves from one orientation to the next without even a hiccup or pause. This is far more graceful than the awkwardness at which I stumble about in this place.

It disappears again and I wait impatiently for it to come back. Time slides by and nothing. I find that I'm becoming angry, like it's purposely denying me my idle pleasure. I shake my head, knowing what I'm feeling is irrational. It doesn't even know I'm here.

I stand up and stretch with the idea that if I meander about, I might run into it again. While stretching, I arch my back and look up. It's standing some thirty feet above me, also looking up and staring right at me.

I blink, coming to terms with the knowledge we are both looking "up" at each other.

I can't resist the urge. My hand takes two coins from my pocket. I drop one, half expecting it to fall up to this stranger. It lands with a soft clinking at my feet. With a sudden jerk, I throw the second coin up at the stranger. It hits the ground a few feet in front of him and bounces about -- staying on what is to it the ground.

The stranger looks to the coin and then to me. The face is non-descript, or at least the only detail I can recall when I awake is that it's masculine. In fact, expect that he's dressed in dark cloths, not quite black, there's nothing else I can recall from first seeing him.

He picks up the coin and smiles at me. He examines the coin as if he's never seen such a thing before and puts it in his pocket and walks off.

I'm flabbergasted. First, the notion of up is turned, well upside down. Second, this being just took my coin and leaves without even saying anything.

I shake my head and run after him, yelling to get his attention. He ignores me. Or perhaps he can't hear me? Who knows what sort of laws sound waves obey here?

He comes to an intersection and turns left, but there's no left on my passage. I'm helpless as he walks out of view. Frantically I turn about, trying to catch him on some other walkway.

I run down one passage and then another. I'm possessed with the notion that I must find him and speak with him. He knows something or can help me in some way.

Exhausted and sweating I pause to catch my breath. My throat is sore from screaming and yelling.

I close my eyes and become overwhelmed with frustration and then hopelessness. Finding someone in this madness is something beyond impossible, something beyond absurd.

I lay on the floor and wait to wake up, refusing to scurry around like a beheaded chicken anymore.

I open my eyes and he's standing next to me, looking down at me. The same smile is on his face. I curse myself for not realizing this is exactly how things go in dreams.

Slowly I stand up, not wanting him to run off. We look at each other, neither moving. I notice that his dark clothes really aren't clothes, but seem to be made of little dark bugs scampering from foot to nearly head. In fact, I realize only his hands and face aren’t covered in these odd minute little critters.

As what is no doubt one of the worst greetings ever in history, I find myself pointing at him and saying, "What are those?"

His smile never fades. His hand picks one of the critters from his leg and holds it while it squirms. "These? These are lies."

The incredulity is thick in my soft spoken reply, "You're covered in lies?"

"Yes, I'm covered in lies." He pauses for a moment; the smile on his face grows bigger. I'm confused why he's not insulted. "Pity we don't have a mirror."

The last six words slowly sink in while I watch him carefully place the lie-bug right back where he took it from.

My voice now shaky, "What do you mean pity about a mirror?"

His smile fades to pursed lips, "I mean, just that, a pity we don't have a mirror." His voice is soft and soothing.

I pass on the mirror for the moment, though something about it is nagging in my head, "You don't mind my asking about them?"

He offers small shrug, "Why should I mind? They are my lies. Though I don't think there's much I can tell you about them you don't already know."

I ignore the last, as if I hadn't even heard it. "Your lies? You own them?"

"Yes, mine. I sort of own them. I created them." He's talking to me like a teacher explaining something to a four year old.

"Created them?"

"If we had a mirror, you'd understand."

We stand in silence for a few moments. I'm transfixed staring at these lie-bugs. How many bugs does it take to cover a person? Bugs so small it's hard to see an individual one, even from a few feet away. Finally I say, "There must be thousands of them."

He nods, "Probably more. I never took the time to count."

"Do they itch or bite?" I'm finding I'm genuinely interested in them or perhaps just wanting to stop thinking about the mirror idea.

A gentle smile and head shake, "No, but I suppose they make themselves noticed in their own way. Though I don't need to tell you about that, do I?"

Silence settles in again. A knot of worry is festering in my belly. His last sentence strikes some sort of cord inside my head. The word 'mirror' echoes and my worry grows.

In a voice so soft I say, "Am I covered in lies?"

He simply looks at me.

"Please tell me, can you see them?" I'm nearly panic stricken.

A look of compassion crosses his face, but still he says nothing. Instead he turns walks away. Part of my brain screams to run after him, but I'm too wrapped up in the idea that I too am covered in lies.

The urge to look down at myself is frighteningly strong. I resist. I'm not ready. The urge to vomit and vomit with force has replaced my worry. I can't quite bring myself to imagine I'm covered in thousands or millions of little crawly lie-bugs.

I know it's true.

I relent and look down. I already know what I will see. I wear no clothes. I'm covered in nothing but a multitude of lie-bugs. I want to retch.

The stranger was right. I know all about these lies. I own them. I created them. They aren't the lies you tell others. No, these are far, far more important lies. These are all the lies I've ever told myself.

The implication is staggering. How can I see myself, my true self, when I've seemingly devoted my whole life to covering myself up with lies?

It's a wonder the stranger could even see my face. I've told myself that many.

I sob. I cry. I fall to the ground. I pray that I awaken and that I don't remember this. I tell myself I never ever want to remember this dream. It's simply too much.

I feel a new sensation and my scream echoes though this irreconcilable place. How could I have missed that feeling? All of my life, how could I have never felt this before?

The echo slowly fades and I shudder at this new sensation. It's the first touches a brand new lie bug scuttling along on my skin.