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lamuradex · 11 months ago

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Short Story: To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

Genre: Horror

Wordcount: 4488

Description: The wanderer must always walk alone. He must walk alone. Noah walks alone.

To Not Be Alone in the Middle of Nowhere

The wanderer walks alone. His name is Noah.

He awakens in the morning, prepares his food, uses his materials to form paints, and redecorates his arms with symbols. Runes and marks of his homeland. Words with little meaning to anyone else.

He checks the dirt for footprints as he dismantles his tent. The pale earth is smooth and featureless, as always. He checks it again.

Noah packs away his tent, bundling his supplies together onto a sled. He wraps the straps for the sled around his middle, and he walks on, dragging it behind him. He marches on through the dirt.

For hours, he marches. Finally, he stops. He gathers his canteen from his things, satiates his thirst, and then he walks on. A few hours later he does the same for food, and then again to relieve himself. He walks on.

As the sun lowers, he finally stops. He looks about in all directions. He is alone. He is always alone. He sets up his camp and sits by the fire. Then, once the sun has set, he enters his tent and closes the entrance. He tries to sleep, but his ears strain to hear. He clutches the icon hung around his neck. But what can he hear? Intruders? Marauders?

Something worse?

But he hears nothing. For hours he lies there and hears nothing. Finally, he falls asleep, and still hears nothing.

The next morning he awakes. He rises, prepares his supplies, and redecorates his arms. He steps out from his tent.

Something is wrong. His fire has been dashed aside, perhaps by a strong wind. His spear, left outside the tent, has fallen over. His sled has been flipped onto its top.

Noah inspects the earth as he packs away his things. No footprints. No marks. Perfect flawless earth. He is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs up his things and walks on. He watches the horizons on the desolate plains. Deserts, salt flats, whatever you want to call them, they look endless. But he is calmed by the endlessness of it. The sight of the horizon on all sides. Nowhere for anyone to hide.

As the day draws on, he stops to drink. He is alone. He stops to relieve himself. He is alone. He stops to eat.

There is a shadow. Something small on the eastern horizon. Perhaps he is not alone after all.

He continues to walk, watching the shadow, a lone shape low to the ground. As he finally stops to rest, it grows closer. He prepares an evening meal and gleaming eyes watch him from the dark.

They simply watch.

He finally goes to bed and hears something sniffing at his tent. Claws scratching at the flap. Something gnawing at the entrance. And then it stops.

He grips the icon around his neck, but hears nothing else.

Noah awakes the next day and prepares his paints. He repaints his arms, the motions second nature to him now. Every day since he left home.

He emerges from his tent and finds something odd. The earth is disturbed and his things have been rummaged through. He is not alone out here.

He packs away his things and sets off. He sees the shadow again, waiting on the horizon. It gets closer each time he stops, to drink, to relieve himself, and especially when he stops to eat.

That night, gleaming eyes watch him again. Something waiting in the dark. Noah looks out, trying not to look directly at it. He takes some of his food and lays it away from the camp. He eats some himself, watching from the corner of his eye.

Slowly, cautiously, a coyote emerges from the night. It sniffs the food then eats it. Then it runs off with its prize.

The next day this repeats. The camp is packed away and the coyote’s prints are in the dirt. It follows him throughout the day, closer and closer than before. He can feel it following and knows he is not alone.

He hopes that is what he can feel following.

That night, he lays out food again. He leaves a trail, leading up to where he sits. He sits and eats as quietly as he can. The coyote emerges from the night and licks at the ground, sniffing and snuffling closer. Finally, it stops beside him, sniffing for more food. Noah puts out a hand and pets its head. It snarls, and so he stops. But it does not flee. He leaves it an extra bit of food, and the coyote falls asleep by the fire.

Noah falls asleep in his tent, his ears straining yet again.

But he hears nothing.

The next morning he wakes. He repaints the symbols on his arms and leaves his tent.

His heart drops.

His spear is not where he left it, beside his tent. The coyote is dead, the spear jammed through its neck. Noah can see how this happened. The spear fell over, and panicked at the noise, the coyote ran and impaled itself.

That is except for the mark in the coyote’s fur. The one identical to the icon around Noah’s neck.

But the earth is undisturbed, and there was no sound the previous night.

Noah is alone. He is always alone.

Noah packs his things and moves on. He is nearing the end of the plains, the land ahead green with trees. It reminds him of home.

Even as he marches on, the day he left plays in his mind. He doesn’t want it to, and he has trained himself not to, but a little sweet nostalgia allures him to the memory, forgetting the bitterness of such thoughts on his tongue.

He was warned not to go in there. He was warned not to touch the stone. But a teenager will rebel against his elders, and the others dared him to. He remembers the thrill of climbing down into that cave, the chill of the water as he submerged, finding his prize, and their cries of triumph as he emerged clasping the smooth stone.

And then people were angry. His parents. The grand elder. He can recall his confusion at their rage. He couldn’t understand why they were so upset.

It was just a superstition, right?

There are no coyotes as he sits by the fire. Not now. Instead, he sits and watches the trees before him, their branches rustling in the wind. Beyond the forest is the orchard. And beyond the orchard is the mountain. And the mountain is the place where no one can follow him.

Where he can finally, truly, be by himself.

The next day he rises, repaints his marks, and sets off amongst the trees. He clings to the icon around his neck, watching the branches as if they’d reach out and grab it from him. As he walks he finds a stream, so refills his canteen. He finds berries, and so refills his rations. But this place is not quiet. There is noise everywhere, chirping, skittering, yipping. But he pulls his sled on, through trees and roots and mud.

That night he stops. There is only uneven ground, so it is difficult to set up his tent. He chooses to keep all his things inside the tent, to avoid mischievous monkeys or birds stealing anything. He sits tightly amongst his things, listening to the ceaseless noise outside.

Then it goes quiet. Just for a few minutes. Everything is silent.

And during that time Noah strains his ears again.

Until noise returns and he drifts to sleep.

The next day he rises and repaints his markings. They’re slightly scratched by branches, but it doesn’t take long to remedy. When he opens his tent, he finds a pile of bugs, all laid out like a sigil on the floor. A familiar marking, the same one which hangs around his neck.

But he can see how this happened. He’d been absentmindedly scrawling in the dirt with his spear, the same spear he’d used to retrieve the fruit. Spreading fruit juice like that, bugs were bound to follow.

He cannot tell why they died though. Perhaps the fruit was poisonous to them. Perhaps it’s poisonous to him but he doesn’t know it yet.

Either way, the earth around is undisturbed, as always.

He is alone out in these woods.

He is soon packed and on his way again. The weather is more temperate than it was on the plains. The trees and leaves trap heat, wrapping it in moisture, and making it heavy. But Noah walks on. Around trees, through bushes, across wide little streams.

He sees animals throughout the day. Spiders crawling up trunks. Snakes slithering over roots. Most ignore him if he ignores them. A few flies buzz around him, but they soon find other prey. A mosquito takes fascination with him for a while, but he swats it. Up in the trees above, a little shape swings. A monkey. It leaps from branch to branch, following his path.

That night, he settles and sets up his camp again. He glances up and sees the little monkey, still leaping about. Its bright eyes leer down. Noah eats some fruit as it draws closer. He sees it weighing its jump, ready to steal something. But he can’t sleep another night with his supplies crammed in his tent. The smell of the fruit is too strong, and positioning his spear is a challenge. And still the monkey creeps closer.

Noah takes a stick from the undergrowth and wraps a spare bit of cloth around it. He lights it from his campfire and swings it wildly up at the monkey.

The monkey screeches and yelps. It retreats, hurrying up a tree trunk. Noah waves his torch until the beast disappears. He hopes it won’t come back.

As he readies for bed, he takes some large leaves and covers the fruit. With one last thought, he takes his spear into the tent, propping it up awkwardly inside the entrance.

That night his ears strain against the noisy silence. So much noise it becomes the base for all other sound. Then he hears it. Scampering feet. Little eeks and ooks. The rustle of leaves.

Then the forest is silent again. Truly silent. All that remains is the monkey, rummaging amongst the fruit.

With a snap and a sharp shriek, even that falls silent.

The noise finally returns and Noah falls fitfully to sleep.

The next morning he reapplies his paints and opens his tent. The monkey is dead, its body left strewn across the far tree, battered and broken. Its blood spells a familiar symbol in its fur.

It must have just been a predator, Noah tells himself. Just a predator.

Noah marches on, sled behind him. The trees are already parting, leaving greater room to walk. By nightfall he will almost be at the orchard. Then the mountain.

Then he’ll be alone.

As he settles for nightfall, the trees are already quite wide apart. Wide enough that he can set up his tent without trouble. Wide enough that no animals come close.

As he sets up his tent, a chill joins the air. Something colder than cold.

The air is silent. Not even the noise of the jungle.

CRACK!

Noah looks up, but dives into his tent, hurriedly tying the entrance. Too late, in fact.

A branch the size of a log hits the tent’s roof.

The tent crumples, and the log lands atop Noah. His spear is in his hand, but the rest of him is pinned to the floor. He releases his spear and reaches up to the icon around his throat. Golden metal meets his fingers, and he relaxes. The chill to the air vanishes. The sounds of the woods return.

Using his spear, he levers the log off of him. He slips out, his side bleeding from where a branch cut him. It isn’t deep, so he patches it with mud and some torn cloth from his tent.

He moves the log and rebuilds his tent as best he can. He rechecks the various runes painted on its fabric. Luckily, they’re undamaged. He looks up to where the tree branch fell from.

Something is sat on the branch. A shadowy shape. First a monkey, then a coyote. Then it is a young man, before vanishing completely.

Noah heads into his tent and struggles to sleep.

The next day comes, and Noah almost forgets to repaint his arms. The cut in his side aches. It hurts, but there is nothing he can do.

He packs up his things and marches on.

Within hours, he has passed the edge of the jungle and steps out into lush green fields. The occasional tree is spread around, many littered with fruit. He tries to pluck some, but finds it too high, and his side is too sore to climb. He walks on.

That night he sets up camp in a field. No trees to fall on him, no animals to bother him. His side still aches, and he barely eats before surrendering and going to bed. He doesn’t hear anything that night, not that he is listening.

His hand doesn’t leave the icon around his neck all night.

The next day he awakes, but something is wrong. He is shivering, though the air is still warm. He sweats though he feels cold. The wound in his side burns and looks swollen. Even so, he rises, packs his things, and moves on.

The walk is more challenging today. His bones are tired and his thoughts drift in and out. They drift so far that the tang of nostalgia lures him in again.

The memories play out like a performance around him.

He is at home again, wandering back into the village. The elders are furious. His parents look scared. He is forced to carry the stone by himself, the elders refusing to touch it. There is shouting and ranting. Words like “Banishment” are used. Words like “Death”.

He knows that he has done wrong, but not why.

Finally, the words “The wanderer must walk alone” are uttered.

The chief’s guards arrive, and he is forced to leave.

All alone.

In the orchard, the night is rolling in. But Noah’s mind is too clouded. He walks on into the evening. He walks on into the night. He finally collapses, and in a moment of blurred clarity, he wraps the remains of his tent around himself like a blanket.

The inside is sweltering, his body boiling. His side still aches.

The night is silent.

The next morning he is awoken. Not by the dawn, but footsteps and people. They find him lying on the ground, wrapped in his tent. He is drenched in sweat and his side burns like fire. He looks at it, as do they, and they wince. It is yellowing, in parts even green.

One of them carries him on their shoulder. They are large people, all wearing rough and strong clothes. One of them carries a trident, but with four prongs.

Noah falls asleep as they carry him.

He awakens again in a bed. He is in his tent, but he can tell he did not set it up. The knots are wrong and the flaps are unsealed. But he cannot move. His side is on fire, his body drenched with sweat. He looks around and the runes on his skin are gone.

He looks down. His side is exposed, the mud cleaned off, now wrapped in clean bandages. He remembers being briefly awakened to take medicines.

He hopes they were medicines.

He tries to sit up, but cries out in pain and falls back. The sound attracts someone. A young woman enters his tent, sitting down beside him. She has hair like flax and freckles from cheek to cheek. She smiles with missing teeth, but in a way that is quite charming. She also speaks in a tongue Noah does not know. It is lilting and bright, but not one word is familiar.

She spies his lack of recognition. She tries to mime, pointing at his side, and then showing drinking something. She then mimes for him to stay still.

He nods and falls back to sleep.

Evening approaches, and he wakes to see the young woman. She is offering food, which he gladly accepts. Already he feels better and tries to stand, but she stops him. He is still weak. She produces a bit of paper and a quill. She writes something, but he does not know the letters. But she passes him the quill.

He writes something. He writes that he is thirsty, and would like some wine. He knows she will not understand.

That night, once she is gone, his ears strain at the dark. But this is not a quiet place. He hears horses, and people working late, and drinking in a nearby tavern.

And then, for a moment, it is silent. Silent aside from the sound of something being dragged.

Then all is normal again, and Noah falls unwillingly to sleep.

The next morning he awakens, but is still too weak to stand. He searches for his paints, but cannot find them. They must be on his sled.

Around mid-morning, the young woman arrives to give him food and water. And some wine. He looks at her curiously.

She mimes and writes a few words. One is “traveller” and the next “uncle”. The next is a list of places, one of which Noah recognises. He nods and writes “Hello”. She writes “Hello” in her tongue. They both smile.

The joy is cut short however. There are shouts, screams, yells of anguish. The young woman heads out and returns minutes later looking quite pale. She has brought a book with her. She reads it hurriedly, and Noah spies some of his language in the pages.

She scrawls down two words on the paper. “Missing” and “boy”.

Mere minutes later, the tent flap is thrown open, and a man in very stern clothes looks down at him. A finger is pointed in an accusatory way, loud words are said, and the young woman stands out of the way.

Noah however is too weak to stand. He tries to, but fails, and so the accusations are soon dropped. The man leaves, as does the young woman.

Later that evening, she returns. Noah has had all day to think. He desperately asks for the quill. He tries to warn her. He must have his things. He must have his paints. He grips and shows the icon around his neck as if she will understand.

She does her best to translate. She tells him to stay put. She thinks he is just afraid of the kidnapper, and he doesn’t want to be their next victim.

In a way, she isn’t wrong.

She is then called away by a dinner bell, or so Noah guesses.

And he is left alone.

That night his ears strain at the silence. The town is more sombre, no celebrating with such a tragedy in their midst. But amidst the mournful sobs, there is a moment of silence.

And in the silence, two noises. The sound of two things being dragged.

Noah does not sleep that night.

Noah stirs from his dreadful thoughts as the tent flap is opened and the stern man looks in. He says something, but it is not understood. Noah tries to answer anyway. The man shakes his head and leaves.

Around noon, the young woman appears, but she is dishevelled. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are bloodshot.

She writes on the paper three words. “My sisters. Missing.”

Noah stares at her for a long time. She forces the pen and paper into his hands. There is something new written on it.

“What took them?”

She looks at him, her eyes knowing more than her age would suggest. Insistent for answers.

He writes back. He asks that she help him leave. He begs for his paints and his things. He pleads that he be allowed to get away from here.

He does not answer her question.

She looks at his words, and she looks disgusted. She writes back. He is a coward, trying to escape. She helped him, and he will not help her.

He writes one last time to help him leave, and then all will be well. For her, all will be well. He then writes a single word.

Wanderer.

But it is unclear if she understands. He doesn’t know if the word can be translated or if she does just believe him a coward.

She leaves and does not return. Someone else brings his food that evening.

And he sits and eats alone, before tiredness finally takes him.

A noise in the night awakes Noah. A dragging noise. A lumbering noise. Something large, dragging its feet.

He has been in the same place too long.

He hears it moving, long toes dragging in the dirt. He sees a shadow against the moonlight, a form as tall as his tent. Long fingers hang past its knees. A maw of teeth shifts as it breathes.

And then another noise. A confused cry. A shout of anger and fear. The light of a burning torch.

A young girl screams.

The shadow vanishes and a man cries out in agony. A torch flies and ignites a nearby building. Like a shadow play, parts and fractions play out on the tent. A man impaled on long fingers. A jaw distending from a cavernous mouth. An eyeless head turning its gaze on him.

Suddenly, a hand pokes under the tent flap. A young woman’s hand. Noah struggles to his feet and grabs her fingers, but something else is pulling from the other side. She pleads and cries, but Noah is too weak. She slips from his hands, and her screams fall silent.

With all the strength he has, Noah holds the tent flaps shut.

Something stops outside the tent. His spear is on his sled. He can hear the thing breathing, rasping, hacking breaths. Something so old, so terrible. Noah watches as its long fingers press at the canvas, threatening to rip through. It strides around his tent, its long shadow cast over him by the flames.

Noah falls back and clutches the icon around his neck. He sits there until morning.

Then he is finally alone again.

Noah does not sleep. He rises and in desperation draws the symbols back on his arms with dirt and spit. He leaves his tent and he looks upon the village. He falls to his knees and vomits.

The town is in ruins. Almost a dozen buildings, all burnt or strewn with blood. Bodies lie in the streets, some whole, others ripped in half or more. One has his chest ripped open, chunks of gore dripping into the chasm.

And there, in the centre of town, impaled on Noah’s own spear, is the young woman. Her eyes are lifeless. Her hair is bloodstained. Her body is limp.

He is alone again.

Noah does not stay. He packs his things and marches on. He marches on faster than ever. He leaves his spear where it is, but gathers his sled and his supplies. The mountain is just beyond the village. He is almost there.

But his mind will not rest.

No more sweet nostalgia, a bitter taste floods his mind. He has tasted this pain before.

He recalls as he was driven from the village. Without food, without supplies, without explanation. On the call that “The Wanderer must travel alone”. The only one to stop him was his mother, who handed him an icon to wear about his neck.

She said it would keep him safe. He thinks it has.

He left the village, walking out into the woods. He stopped a mere hour away, weeping and mourning, not knowing what to do.

But then there had been a noise. Something in the trees. He had wanted a weapon, something to defend himself.

But it hadn’t been needed. His friends, those that had dared him to go in that cave, had followed him. They wished to go with him.

He had been so happy that night. And they celebrated. One had snuck a jug of wine. Another had brought a book of foreign places to go. Where they could all go. The book told stories of distant lands, and paradise havens, and a mystical mountain where no one could follow.

And his friends also told stories of The Wanderer. They recited all that the village had told them. Of a creature. Of a stone that had held such a thing in place.

But they had laughed. Laughed into the evening. Laughed until they slept under the stars.

The next morning, Noah had awoken to a cold wetness. As he stirred lying in a pool. A crimson pool. His friends were dead, gutted, their blood mixing around him.

He had screamed so loud. But that was when he had seen it.

Waiting just beyond. Waiting in the trees.

The Wanderer.

And he hasn’t stopped since.

The mountain is cold, and colder as he climbs. Snow crunches underfoot and frost bites at his skin. The sled catches in trenches of ice and patches of slush slip from under him like landslides.

But Noah presses on. He marches up the snowy slope, not able to see the top. For a day, he marches, and as the sun sets he presses on. But he hears nothing. No new noise, but no silence either. Just the flurry of snow.

For another day, he walks without stopping. Finally the peak comes into view. He crests the top and looks down, the world splaying out before him. He can see the village and the orchards beyond. He can see the jungle, and the mists amongst the trees. He can even see the plains, and how they bend over the horizon.

And somewhere beyond that must be home.

Noah sits upon the peak, cold seeping into his very bones. And for once, ever since this began, he feels truly alone.

With shaking hands, he reaches up and he removes the icon from around his neck. He places it in the snow before him and breathes in the cold air.

Suddenly, the air grows silent. Silent apart from the crunch of footsteps.

Noah doesn’t dare look round. He knows it will be there. He just hears those dragging steps as they move up the mountain behind him. Fear colder than the snow clutches his heart, but he doesn’t move. He can’t.

He feels long, sharp fingers wrap around his throat. He’s terrified, but it’s already too late.

And as the fingers wrench, and there’s a snap that could only be his neck, Noah can only think one thing.

He was never alone.

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lamuradex · 2 months ago

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Lucid and Dreaming

(That is not the best banner but I tried)

A Horror Short Story (Wordcount: 11,380)

This is the longest Horror short story I've ever written. Please enjoy.

Maya learned to lucid dream so she could get some control over her sleeping hours. She's able to visit memories, relive moments with her girlfriend Ashley, and use her dreams for her own benefit. But what happens when you can't tell dreams from reality? WAKE UP, MAYA! Ashley is waiting for you. And she's in your dreams too.

A decent length short story about a woman, Maya, trapped in her dreams. Reliving, or possibly flashing forwards, with dreams about her girlfriend, or possibly her wife, Ashley, Maya starts to find she can't even trust her own mind while she's asleep, and she doesn't know where the dreams end.

Content: Light Gore, Dreams, Implied Nudity, Slight Body Horror, Unreality

My Writing tag: #Lamura Dex Writes!

Please enjoy this and my other works. Novels and major WIPS are linked in the pinned post on the blog. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

Anyway, onto the story!

Lucid and Dreaming

So, you want to learn how to lucid dream?

My name is Maya, I’m 25, and I learned to lucid dream because there are only so many hours in the day to process everything. I’m a busy woman, a photographer, and to be able to spend my sleeping hours as well as my waking ones thinking just seems the best of both worlds. And it isn’t as hard as you’d imagine.

I wake up in my bed. I then have to check if I’m dreaming.

The trick to it is to have a tell. Dream checks and the like, something to let you know you’re asleep. Some people consciously check if they’re dreaming several times a day, so they’ll notice when they actually are. Others train their brain to create a subconscious tell, like a flag or a bouncing red ball. If that’s there, then they’re dreaming. It was a lot of effort to go to, and I’m not gonna say it’s consistent, but it’s certainly better than the nightmares I used to have. Now I’ve got some control. Now I can dream whatever I want.

So I wake up in my bed and check if I’m dreaming. I raise my hands and count my fingers. That’s normal. I check if I’m breathing. Seem to be. I find something to read. There’s a book on my bedside table that I haven’t read yet. It’s title is… The Ballad of Princcccwew Strorrr

That’s not right. Not right at all. And so, I must be dreaming. Here we go.

I jump out of bed and run downstairs. My Mum is in the kitchen cooking breakfast and my dog is sat at the table. This is strange for a number of reasons, such as me not having a dog and me moving out from home years ago. I’m definitely dreaming.

I ignore them and head outside. Suddenly, it’s my childhood street, not the one I really live on. No matter. It’ll take me where I want to go.

I try to focus. If you really focus, you can sometimes control it. Change the dream. And I want to relive something.

I concentrate and keep walking. The street becomes a park. The park shouldn’t be anywhere near this street, but it doesn’t matter. There she is. My best friend, Ashley. Well, more than a best friend now. We made it official last week, when she kissed me on that very bench. We’d been dancing around it for weeks and finally…

I want to relive that kiss. I want to live in that moment again. Her look of shyness, her hurried explanation. Her light brown skin, deep brown eyes, and that silky chocolate hair, all so perfect in the afternoon light. That smile, those lips, the ones she insists on painting red. Like an invitation. And those words seared into my brain.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time, but I can’t keep pretending. Things are different now. You know, after that party a few weeks ago… when we almost…”

“What are you saying, Ash?”

“I’m saying… I really did want to, that night, and it wasn’t just the beer talking. I wanted to kiss you. I… like you, Maya. Like, a lot. I really like you.”

I remember blushing. The heat replays in my cheeks in the dream. “Really?”

“Yes!” she exclaims, punching me in the arm. “Oh my god, as if it weren’t obvious. I’ve been staring at you ever since.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’ve been freaking flirting with me. Just… I didn’t want to ruin what we have. You’re my best friend, May.”

“And you’re mine too. But that doesn’t mean our friendship is ending. It’s just… gotten deeper. More interesting. More… intimate.”

I sit back, arms behind my head, casual as I can be. Girlfriends are nothing new to me… unfortunately. A string of bad luck there. But Ashley has only been out of the closet a couple of years. And I loved her even before that. Have to play it a little cool, not freak her out.

“More intimate?” she asks.

“Yeah. It means… we get to do stuff. And be together. And kiss.”

Ashley’s eyes widen. I almost laugh. I would have too had I not been just as terrified.

“I’d… I’d like that,” she says finally.

“Like we were going to at the party?”

“Kiss me. Right now.”

I remember it well. It plays out in the dream. I didn’t even have time to ask a question. Her hand just grabs my chin, spins my head, and her ruby painted lips plant against my beige ones. Softness, gentleness, a thrill like lightning down my spine. And I relive it all in the dream.

And then she pulls away. Her phone buzzes. I still curse that phone sometimes. She leaves.

I am alone, but I don’t feel alone. Not anymore.

I want to relive it again. Live in the dream. Live in that moment forever.

But, like a fine wine, I want to savour it. Like a song I really enjoy, I want to hold off on listening to it. I don’t want to dull my enjoyment by replaying it too much. I don’t want to wear down the grooves on the record. I’ll leave it stuck in my head for a while.

I get up and walk home. My street is my street again. My dog and my Mum are gone. I wander back upstairs.

The other problem with lucid dreaming is waking up. If you’re in a dream world, how do you end it, if it doesn’t feel like you’re dreaming? Some people just beg to wake up. Some can compel themselves to do so. Me, I’ve trained myself to have an out. An escape. An exit.

Behind a picture in my room, a picture of Ashley hung on the wall, is a sticker she stuck there. Just a red circle, to cover up a crack, but every time I see it I think it’s a button for half a second. And in my dreams that’s what it is. A button, round and red, with “Exit” written on it. It’s not subtle, but it’s also my final dream check, in case all others fail.

I press it and I wake up. Easy as that.

I wake up in my bed. I’m in my room. I kiss my fingers and plant the kiss on the photo of Ashley, barely having to look. Then I get up and head downstairs. My house, my stairs, my kitchen. No Mum, no dog, and my house is on my proper street. All is well.

“Morning,” says my husband. He’s cooking breakfast and…

That’s not right… Is it?

I look at him. Jeff. He’s polite, he’s charming, I know there was a wedding, I remember it. He’s cooking breakfast, bacon and eggs, and whistling a jaunty tune. And I love him, don’t I? But in my dream…

Was Ashley just a dream?

My brain curls around that idea. He comes over and kisses me on the cheek, putting down my breakfast. But Ashley seemed so…

“Everything alright, honey?” he asks.

“Everything’s fine,” I answer distantly.

Dream checks. I need dream checks. I check my hands, nothing wrong there. There’s a ring on my finger, which is interesting. I think back to when I woke up. Is my bed actually big enough for two? I don’t know. What about me breathing? Have I been-

I haven’t been breathing. Not since I woke up. I certainly haven’t been smelling the breakfast, lovingly cooked by Jeff. I should have smelled it by now. And suddenly, I recognise him. Jeff. He’s wearing the face of some celebrity. A reused head for the dream. He’s the man who does the toothpaste ads. I recognise the pearly white smile.

Further confirmation, as if I need it, I look at Jeff’s newspaper. It’s the Daily Cryer Crysler Crisper… Nonsense. I’m still dreaming.

I abandon the breakfast and hurry back upstairs. There’s a picture of Jeff beside my bed. It was definitely Ashley before. I’m definitely still dreaming… but just to be sure, I slip the picture aside and there it is. The Exit Button. I hit it without delay.

I wake up in my bed. That was… strange. I rub my eyes tiredly. Not to worry though, you hear about this stuff happening. Hell, it happens to people who don’t lucid dream. You dream that you’ve woken up but you’re really still dreaming.

I kiss my fingers and plant it on Ashley’s photo, right beside my bed, reaching over The Ballad of Prince Antoine, the book I’ve been meaning to read. And I can read the title now, which is good. I get up and… I double check the photo on my wall is still Ashley before I go. It is. I head downstairs.

My house is quiet, as it should be. No Mum, no dog, no Jeff. I rub my eyes again. Tired. You shouldn’t be tired if you spent all night sleeping. You shouldn’t be tired if you spent all night dreaming. It’s bullshit.

Luckily, it’s my day off. Freelance photographer, no jobs lined up for today, a modelling photoshoot tomorrow. And I’m looking forward to it, despite the snootiness. The models are usually fun, it’s the managers who are jerks. But, with nothing to do, I decide to veg out on the couch, phone at my side, texting Ash. Oh, wait… she’s at work. Office job where you aren’t allowed your phone at your desk. Never understood that.

TV is drivel. Daytime talk shows, family dramas in front of an audience, old reruns of older programs that can’t get a good timeslot. It all just blurs together. I’m pretty sure I’m sat there for hours. I check my phone and no texts. Of course there aren’t. It’s barely 11:00am. I get up, make some breakfast, and eat it without really noticing. Toast and… whatever else was in the fridge. Cheese, I think?

I’m back on the couch as if I never left. TV drivel. It’s actually so dull it’s giving me a headache, like it’s draining my brain of any good sense. The clock strikes twelve.

Dream checks. Hands, breathing… there isn’t any writing nearby. No trouble though.

I can barely stand to watch any more and my phone is annoyingly silent. I watched five episodes of something and it’s still only twelve! I can’t take it!

But there is that book I’ve been meaning to read. I’ve put it off, it never seemed too interesting, but why not? It’s been sat on my bedside table for ages and I’ve barely cracked the cover.

I turn off the TV and retrieve the book, looking at the photo of Ash again as I pass. I’ve had that photo for years, from some party. I wonder if she knows I keep it on the wall beside my bed… Of course she does. She stuck a sticker back there. Duh.

Anyway, The Ballad of Prince… whatever his name was. I settle back on the couch, crack the spine, and turn to the first page.

“Once upon a time, there was a veby dandsome blaaand. Blis name waf-”

That’s not right.

I read it again. Something is definitely wrong here. Am I having a stroke? A migraine? God, I hope it isn’t a migraine! Ash gets them and they seem like hell-

Dreaming!

I launch the book across the room, smashing a mirror. I pause. There isn’t a mirror there. But there is now, hanging over the mantle. But there shouldn’t be a mantle there! I look in the fragmented remains of the glass, a face staring back at me. I don’t think its my face. It’s ginger for one thing. Bright ginger. Comically ginger. My hair’s more of a hazelnut. I think I wore that ginger wig for Halloween once though.

The face winks at me.

I scramble back and pull out my phone. Dream checks, dream checks, dream checks! There’s a text from Ash, but after her name it’s just… letters. Just letters in a blue box.

I run upstairs, two at a time, maybe three. Perhaps I’m even flying. I arrive in my room and land on the bed. I look at the photo, still of her, and pull it aside. I find the button.

Not a sticker. A button.

I press it.

I wake up in my bed and rub my eyes tiredly. What the hell! I yawn and stretch, knowing I should not be this tired if I slept all-

“Hey, watch it!” Ashley yelps, my hand bumping her cheek. “And good morning to you too.”

I startle, very nearly springing from the bed. I’ve got one foot on the floor before my brain catches up and stops me. Ashley is my wife. I know that. We’ve been married for a year. There’s a ring on my finger. I was just dreaming of our early days. Nostalgia. That’s it. Our first kiss and that past sweet romance. Not that marriage isn’t nice too.

“Are you okay?” she smiles.

“Um… I’m fine, I think.”

“You sure?”

“I…”

Didn’t I just wake up? Just before all this? But of course the dream is already fading, which is always SO frustrating! And Ash looks distractingly beautiful, my wonderful wife, rousing certain *ahem* marital thoughts. And she doesn’t even have her makeup on yet. She’s always had a thing about being seen without it. She’d hate to admit she’s gorgeous either way, lipstick or not. Or without her clothes… And she is naked. Yep. Very naked. Both of us are, actually. And why not? We are a married couple.

“Um…”

“Seriously, you look a million miles away, May.”

“Just… a weird dream,” I answer finally, getting back under the covers and snuggling up to her. All is right here.

“Don’t get too comfy, you’ve got a job to get to.” She flicks my ear.

I groan. I miss my freelance photography job, but a mortgage doesn’t pay itself. I had to join a professional studio, but unfortunately my coworkers suck. The ones who aren’t novices are entitled pricks who think themselves god’s gift to artistry. And all the equipment’s so expensive, and…

“Didn’t you hear me? Your paycheque isn’t under those covers.”

“Something else is though,” I smirk.

She flicks my ear again. “Up! I’ve got to go out too. Margaret says she needs help selling the Haliday property.”

My wife, the realtor. Different office, different job, same frustrations. Annoying coworkers for one. Still, she does look good in that red jacket.

I reluctantly get up. Before I know it, I’m dressed. So is she, and I didn’t even get an eyeful. But work needs doing and dollars need earning. Off we go.

The day goes as you’d expect. At the studio, Frank forgets how to focus the lens again, we’re hired to photograph a family and they insist on including the dog, which makes a mess on the floor. We make Frank clean it. Lunch is a moment of peace. I almost have time for a dream check, before Andrew sees me and laughs, asking what I’m doing. None of your business, Andrew! Back to work. Ted and Andrew are arguing about backdrops for the new client. Andrew wants a brick wall, Ted a field of flowers. I set up a white sheet and the client doesn’t even notice. Andrew says it’s tacky, but fuck Andrew. Five o’clock cannot come soon enough.

It finally creeps along and I dart out the moment the clock turns. Train back, three stops, back down the road. Same house I’ve lived in for years.

I look up and there’s Ash, across the way, just stepping out of the house with a For Sale sign. Someone’s taking down the sign. Good work, Ash. She sees me and waves, hurrying to greet me. A smile, the light in her eyes, a gap between two parked cars-

Headlights! Crack! Thud! The screeching of tires, far too late to be of any use.

It came out of nowhere. The car came out of fucking nowhere! But Ash-

I find her lying in the road. She’s moving, just barely, her neck at a terrible angle. And she can’t speak. She looks up into my eyes, through my eyes, off into the beyond. Just a few guttering breaths escape her lips. A pool of blood is spreading from her. From her arm, her legs, her head. Bones jutting through clothes. I hold her. Hot blood, her head’s at the wrong angle, and then-

Stillness. She stops moving. She stops breathing.

She’s gone.

No….

The ambulance is there before I can realise. I hold her and stroke her motionless cheek. The driver stops and begs that it wasn’t his fault. I kiss her forehead and the sparkle in her eyes has gone. The ambulance men drag her from my arms. Her body hangs limp, eyes empty and staring. I step back. She’s gone… she’s just… gone.

No… NO!

A flood of pain surges up from my stomach, through my heart and into my head. My mind collapses under the strain. It can’t be real! Everything hurts, thinking hurts! She can’t be gone! She can’t be! NO! Her face stands in my mind’s eye, her sparkling eyes, her shattered neck. I look down at myself, at my reddened clothes, at the reddened ground, at the blood that-

There’s no blood.

I look at the road, the doctors, the sheet they’ve thrown over the corpse. It should be crimson, but it’s pure and white. My heart is in my throat, I feel like I should be vomiting, that I should be screaming but-

There’s no blood. This can’t be happening.

This really can’t be happening. This isn’t real.

I run from the scene. Sprint faster than I ever have before. I run inside my house, our house, our home. Everything is deathly silent. I run upstairs and it feels like forever, like time is running backwards. But there’s the photo on the wall. Her photo, her wonderful face, her beautiful eyes. I hesitate before I move it, too hurt to hope. I can’t dare to think I’m wrong. She can’t be gone!

But there’s the button. Not a sticker. A button.

I press it.

I wake up in my bed, bolting upright and sweating. It can’t be real, it can’t be! It can’t-

I slowly look round. A form is lying in the bed beside me. Ashley is lying there beside me.

I start to breathe again. My heart slows down. I lay back, staring at her as she sleeps.

It couldn’t be real. Not her. Never her.

And it wasn’t. She’s here. I’m here. And I’m awake.

The alarm goes off on the bedside table and Ashley begins to stir. She opens her eyes and sees me staring.

“Morning?” she questions.

“You just… looked really pretty,” I lie. Well, it is true, but…

“Thanks,” Ash narrows her gaze. She’s always had a thing about being seen without her makeup. Still, she smiles. “Now, time to get up.”

A flash of cold dread flares, but I breathe. It wasn’t real. She sees me.

“You okay?”

“Bad dream. It was… awful,” I say, trying not to recall the images.

“Oh, sweetie.” She comes up from the sheets and kisses my cheek. Naked again. We do usually wear pyjamas, don’t we? “It’s alright. It was just a dream.”

“I know.”

With a creeping, inevitable momentum, we both rise, drift apart, and prepare for work. I miss my old freelance photography job, but I had to join this studio… I suddenly get déjà vu. When did I last say that?

Doesn’t matter. Off to work. The next few hours pass in a frenzy of incompetence and ego. I keep my head down and work. Andrew nearly flips his lid when I miss something he says, but I’m distracted. That broken neck…

My head is swimming. Things feel wrong. But is that just the dream. Dreams? How many times have I woken up? How many times have I actually gone to bed first?

The day crawls by and coffee soothes many worries, or at least buries them under a certain nervous tension. I skip out a few minutes early, not that it matters, I still have to catch the same train.

I get down our street, the same one I’ve lived on for years, and look over the road. The door opens, Ash comes out, red jacket and all, and sees me. She smiles and hurries over.

“Look both ways!” I cry, a little too urgently.

She stops, nods like a sullen teenager, and makes a big show of looking. There aren’t any cars, parked or otherwise. Just the empty road in a quiet suburban neighbourhood.

“You’ll be asking me to eat my greens next,” she comments as she trots over.

“Just… I don’t know. I was worried my dream was prophetic.”

“Prophetic?” She furrows her brow concernedly, but it fades. She can see it’s worrying me. She always can, even if I don’t show it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah…” I say quietly. She starts guiding us to the park. It’s a little ways away, but it’s a good place. Our special place. It was where we first kissed, after all.

We find the bench and sit, old and grimy as it is now. She holds my hand and smiles. I smile back. It was just a dream. Everything is fine. She is fine. All is right with the world.

“I just… I dreamed I lost you,” I explain, knowing how silly I sound.

“Lost as in-”

“You got hit by a car.”

“Oh, brutal! Your imagination is cruel.”

“Yeah,” I helplessly agree. “But you’re here now. And I’m here. And we’re both fine.”

“Right. We’re both here. I’m safe. You’re safe. I’m healthy, and you’re…. Naked!”

I blink in confusion. She looks alarmed and confused. I look down.

I’m naked. Pink bits and skin tones that shouldn’t be exposed. I can feel the cold where there shouldn’t be cold! Ashley is staring.

“What the hell, Maya!” she stands up, offended.

“I… I don’t… I was wearing…” I sputter. No answer is complete. Was I always naked?

“God, what the hell? Do you think this is funny?”

“What? No! I…” I can’t have left the house naked, can I? I can feel myself blushing all over. The park is busy today and people are noticing.

“Did you just forget to get dressed?”

Did I? It seems pretty absent minded. But could I have done? How else could this have happened. But we’re not far from the house…

“Put on some clothes, Maya!”

“What clothes?”

What clothes? The question swirls. An idea surfaces. Stress dream. Naked stress dreams.

Dream checks. Breathing, hands… oh, who am I kidding? My clothes just vanished! I’m dreaming!

I cover myself and make a break for the edge of the park. I’m sure it wasn’t this far to get here, and my steps are strange and sluggish, like running on ice. A man tries to stop me to talk about nothing in particular and politeness almost keeps me there, in strict contrast to my embarrassment. But I run. Ash is with me, half covering me, half judging me. I can feel eyes boring into my nudity.

I make it back to the house with only a few dozen angry eyes sentencing me, and run upstairs to change. Or to get dressed, because there’s nothing to change. And Ash is tutting angrily downstairs.

But I see her photo. I move it aside. There’s the button. Stupid stress dreams! Am I even married?

I press the button.

I wake up in my bed. I am still naked, but so is Ash. I’m naked in a normal and acceptable fashion… which is an odd thing to think, but some lingering embarrassment follows me up from the dream.

Dreams? Plural? How many times have I woken up?

I sit up in bed, quiet as I can. The Ballad of Prince Antoine is still on the bedside. I never did get round to reading it, and it would be caked in dust if it weren’t for Ash’s dependable cleaning routine. I pick it up and flip the pages.

It’s blank. No words at all. I’m definitely dreaming.

I consider reaching for the button, but I stop. Ash is beside me, the world of my subconscious outside. Even if this has been a strange session, I can still have some fun. Manners still guide me to not wake Ash, but I head downstairs. I start getting dressed first, but this is a dream. Why bother?

I go downstairs and my house looks more like a library. I think it’s one from a show I watched once. Maybe my memories are in here. I can’t even find the door. Part of me wants to experience walking naked outside, because why not, and suddenly I’m on the street. I can imagine the cold air on my skin, with none of the embarrassment this time around. No one even notices, even as my neighbours greet me. I throw caution to the wind and run full tilt, feeling like I’m flying, bouncing along the way. And why not fly? The ground swoops beneath me. It feels like a rollercoaster, like I'm staying still and the world is moving, like I’m a camera attached to a drone. I don’t fly anywhere in particular, as aiming seems impossible, but I swoop up the street, to the train station, and back again.

I land, forcing myself down, right back on my doorstep. I step inside. Somewhere along the way I’ve apparently picked up clothes. I guess my subconscious isn’t naturally nude. Oh well.

I head in and find Ash preparing a meal. Certainly a dream. I’m the cook in our relationship. Or is it our marriage? Doubts follow that idea, I don’t know if we’re married yet, but it doesn’t matter. She looks so pretty standing there, laying out the…

Is she serving towels on a plate? They’ve got pictures of ice cream on them, but that’s not food. But this is a dream. Nevertheless, I walk up and kiss her, full on the mouth. It’s my dream, damn it, and I’ll enjoy it how I want to.

“Hi there,” she says in surprise when I let her breathe. She has to push my lips away with a finger to keep talking. “I made dinner.”

“It’ll keep,” I say. I kiss her again. And again. If she’s my wife, and it’s my dream, then why not have some fun.

“You’re certainly excitable-” She says during a gap. My lips cut her off. She gives up trying to talk. She kisses me back. That same thrill, even all these years later.

“I’ve been wanting this all day,” I say, letting her have a moment’s break. I stare into her eyes and see her just as excited as me. I press her against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t you think your husband will mind?” she says seductively. I genuinely don’t know if she’s just roleplaying or if she’s somehow remembering Jeff.

The thought briefly curls in my mind if this is weird. Some people get strangely bitter about dream cheating, their partners having sex dreams about other people. It’s not like they can help it, but some people are weird. Ash has always found the lucid dream thing strange though. But I’m sure she won’t mind this.

Whatever the case, I’m only cheating on her with another her. It’s not a problem.

“Well?” she presses, expecting an answer.

“Don’t worry, babe. It’s not cheating if it’s not real.” I kiss her again.

She pulls back. “What?”

“Just don’t worry about it,” I try to press forward. She pulls out of range.

“What do you mean ‘not real’?”

“It’s just… this is all a dream. Nothing here’s real.”

“And what? Am I not real?” she snaps.

“Well, no. You’re a dream too.”

Ash pushes me back. She looks offended, her face twisting with disgust and anger. I try to comfort her, but she steps away. The kitchen is bigger than it was before to give her room. She rounds on me, furious, teeth gritted and very nearly snarling.

“I am real!” she commands, poking me in the chest. “How dare you say I’m not!”

“But this is all a dream,” I try to explain. A certain dreadful momentum takes hold.

“But I am real! I am real! How could you… How could you think I wasn’t real!”

She advances on me, pushing me back. Shoving me. I bump against the table, almost tripping.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I AM REAL!” she screams, grabbing a plate and throwing it against the wall. Ceramic shards rain. She picks up and throws a chair. At me!

“I AM REAL!”

I retreat, the chair shattering on the wall behind me. We’re back in the library. She’s advancing, murder in her eyes.

“I AM REAL!” she keeps repeating, the same soundbite on a loop.

I run. I find the stairs, her horror movie pace keeping up behind me. She grabs my leg, scratching at me, clawing at my jeans. I slip free of her hands and scrabble upstairs, her cry echoing behind.

I slam the bedroom door shut and stare at the wood. Fists pound against it on the other side. The wood cracks.

“I AM REAL!”

No, you’re not. You’re not Ash. Ash would never…

I shake the thought off. I leap for the picture, throw it aside and press the button.

I wake up in my bed. I’m alone, I’m 25 again, I’m not married, and me and Ash are barely dating. But I’m shaking. How many times have I woken up?

I recall a book I read, as well as a Reddit thread, on the subject. Dream characters going strange when you tell them they’re not real. Never believed it myself, but there you go. Almost like they have a will of their own. A life of their own inside your head.

I perform my dream checks. Hands, ten fingers. Breathing, deeply. Ballad of Prince Antoine, still unread. I hesitate as I pick it up, but find the pages full of words, legible words, thankfully. I’m starting to worry the dream checks aren’t working. Perhaps my brain knows too well what to expect.

I shake it off and put the book down. I remember my place in the world. Day off, dating Ash, I live alone. Maybe one day married, but today… I get up and plan to head downstairs to veg on the couch.

My eyes stop on the photo. I try to discern what’s behind it from across the room. But I don’t move it. I don’t dare. I’m awake, I’m sure of it, so I head downstairs.

No morning TV, just some breakfast, cheese on toast. Just an ordinary day-

My phone rings. I answer it.

“Maya! Where are you?” I don’t recognise the voice.

“I’m home?”

“Home?! The shoot starts in ten minutes!”

I stared confusedly at the wall. My only shoot is tomorrow, on the 18th. I take my phone away from my ear as the caller rambles. He’s clearly-

-right. It’s the 18th. Crap!

“Crap! I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Hurry!”

I hang up and sprint upstairs to change. I was sure it was the 17th. Did I sleep for a whole day? I dreamt enough to have lost a day. I’m out the door in under five minutes, running for the bus stop.

It takes me 45 stressful minutes to arrive, but the client is late too. The models and the designers haven’t arrived, only the man who hired me. He’s tapping his foot irritably.

“Sorry,” I pant, having run the last ten yards. “Lost track of what day it was.”

“You’re late, and you were supposed to bring your camera. Where is it?” he snips.

In my photo studio at home, my mind’s eye shows me. I could scream.

“I’m so sorry, I left it at home. It… broke yesterday,” I try desperately to save face. “I was sure you’d have one as well.”

The client looks down his nose at me. He then wordlessly opens a cupboard and produces a camera, a cheap one, and hands it to me like he’s giving scraps to a peasant.

“And your paperwork?” he continues.

“I don’t remember you asking me for any paperwork.”

He sniffs. “The paperwork for the modelling agency. I cannot believe this,” he huffs.

I scour my brain. Paperwork, papers, anything I had to sign, anything-

“Oh!” my brain finds the file. “The nondisclosure stuff. I signed that last week.”

“Oh. Good,” he says with an edge of disappointment. Jerk.

I finally get to sit down and let my heartrate drop. I’m sweating, didn’t have time to shower, likely look a mess, and now my brain is thrumming with anxiety, searching every thought for something else I forgot. It’s like one of those accursed anxiety dreams where you’re late for class or…

No. I am awake. I know it. I do my dream checks just to be safe, and everything checks out. I try to check my phone, wanting to read the messages, before realising I forgot that too when I got changed. All I brought was my clothes and my purse and… My purse is at home too.

How did I pay for the bus? I can’t remember. I may have accidentally stolen a bus ride.

It’s going to be a long walk home.

The photoshoot goes alright. The camera isn’t great, but I’m getting paid either way. The client hates me, obviously, but I fulfil my contract. And so I hand over the camera and head into town.

And Ash’s office is nearby here. Her real estate- No. She doesn’t work in real estate. She works in… a call centre or something? I should know this. All I know is her bosses are annoying and strict.

I decide to hang out near her building, which does look like a call centre. As noon rolls around, she emerges with some coworkers and I beg her to give me a lift home. She kisses me, provoking some cooing from her coworkers, and quickly takes me home before hurrying back after her lunch break.

I lie, vegetating on the couch, trying to unpack the panic of the day. I’ve checked about five times that it actually is the 18th. I can’t remember yesterday. Then again, if I just vegged out, maybe there was nothing to remember.

Finally, my phone buzzes which means Ash is out of work. She’s waiting at the park, our special place, or at least it’s rapidly becoming so. Our bench is clean, with a couple of bits of graffiti. Perhaps I should add our names in a heart?

“You are messy,” she greets me.

“I don’t know what happened. I thought it was the 17th today.”

“Messy, is all I’m saying,” she affirms.

“Did I see you yesterday?”

She thinks to be sure. “No. I was at work all day, and then I was at my mother’s in the evening. You don’t remember?”

“I feel like I’ve lost a whole day.”

“I think you were online yesterday… Yeah, look. Instagram posts.” She holds up her phone.

There’s a selfie of me eating a bland lunch. I don’t look happy. I sort of remember that.

“Huh. Must have just bored myself senseless.”

“Then there’s a photo of you taking a nap. That might explain it, you and that daft lucid dreaming stuff..."

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with it.” I sound certain but I don’t feel certain. Not anymore.

“Just don’t do it when we start sharing a bed. Creeps me out.”

“Sharing a bed, hey?”

Ash rolls her eyes. “Soon, I mean it. I don’t want to rush things. And my room’s a mess with all that decorating.”

“My room’s closer.”

“Sure, but I’d like to be able to see the floor, not just a layer of abandoned clothes. Messy,” she repeats.

“I’ve tidied up.”

“No you have not!”

“I have. Seriously. There’s only a few socks currently.”

“My hero…” She trails off, looking over my shoulder.

“They’re only from the past few days too.”

“Yeah,” she says distractedly. “Is that guy watching us?”

I turn. Near a tree is a man in a trench coat. Rarely a good sign.

“It’s not your stalker ex, is it?” she murmurs.

“Don’t think so. I hope it’s not a flasher. How long’s he been there?”

“A few minutes. I think we should go.”

I silently agree and we start walking. And so does he.

We walk faster, deciding to take the longer road home. It’s longer, but it’s also far more public. But unfortunately quiet today. The man is still following. His hand is in his pocket. His eyes won’t leave us. Our walk becomes a light jog, and his following becomes a chase. We round a corner back onto our street and break into a run. He starts pursuing. His hand comes out of his pocket. He’s got a butcher’s knife.

“Ash, run!”

We run. We reach the door and slam it shut behind us, locking it. He hits the door on the other side, knife through the frosted glass. He stabs and carves the glass, mad eyes staring through the gaps.

I try to think of weapons. Ash is already on the phone to the police. The lunatic gets his arm through a gap in the glass, scratching up his own arm in the process.

And we’ve left the keys in the lock.

He turns them and throws the door wide. I drag Ash to the stairs. The bedroom door has a lock and a window we can jump out of as a last resort. I push Ash ahead, and the knife goes into the wall by my leg. I spin and land a heel on his chin. Part of his face comes away like a mask. I resume running as he reaffixes it.

In, slam the bedroom door, click the lock. It’s wood and won’t hold against a madman for long. Ash is crying, desperate and terrified, still on the phone to the cops. I’m searching my room for weapons. Anything! Why do I not have anything!

Wood creaks as the man slams against it. I decide to get creative. I pull out some drawers, empty them, and raise the wooden box as the only weapon I’ve got. Ash picks up a folding chair, a bit unwieldy in my small room.

The door creaks and cracks. Even now, the photo on the wall nags at me. Maybe it’s-

The door gives way! The man surges in, knife raised, and Ash throws her chair. It barely clips him, but that’s still a full force clip to the head. He falls, mask shifting. He rises, or possibly she, there’s a certain curve to the hips, dizzy and swaying, as the mask falls off completely. And the face…

“I AM REAL!” Ash’s face emerges from the mask, screaming, knife still in her hand.

My Ash looks at herself in strange terror, and I stare at both of them. The intruder Ash lunges, but my Ash fights her, wrestling herself, begging for help. I slam the drawer into the Nightmare Ash’s back and she crumples, but she rises back quickly, still screaming. I need to save my Ash. The real Ash.

But does it matter?

I stare at Ash, my Ash, the real Ash. She has to be the real Ash. But am I real? Am I awake? Ash stares at me with pleading eyes… But the photo… This can’t be real. I turn and I lunge for it.

I press the button.

I wake up in my bed.

This is bullshit! I get up and scream at the ceiling. That was real, I was sure that was real! What the fuck is going on!

No waiting this time. I throw the photo aside and there it is. The button. I’m still fucking dreaming!

I press it.

I wake up in my bed. Fucking hell!

I move the photo. I see the button.

I press it.

I wake up in my bed.

I move the photo. I see the FUCKING button.

I press it.

I wake up in my bed.

I move the photo. I-

The wall is blank. No sticker, no button, no nothing.

I… I don’t know what this means.

I press the wall, just in case, but nothing happens. I have to still be dreaming, right, because there should be a sticker there? Did I remove it?

I decide to get up and head downstairs. This time the dream isn’t even pretending. The dog and my Mum are back in the kitchen, Jeff is watching TV, and there are clocks and eyes everywhere telling me I’m late. There are also photos of Ash on every wall, the same photo, again and again. I move one just to check. There’s an eye behind it. I move another. There’s another photo behind it. I move a third. A red sticker. I briefly feel excited, before realising it's not a button. Just a sticker.

I decide to head out.

I step out onto my childhood street, which shouldn’t be here, but I can still see the property Real-Estate Ash sold across the road. There’s even a couple of ambulance men tending to nothing in particular. I start to worry that I’ve broken my brain or something.

I walk up and, of course, the park appears around the bend. And there’s Ash, an Ash anyway, I have no idea which one. But any Ash is good… as long as it’s not the nightmare one. Or the dead one. I shake off that memory and sit beside her.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time, but I can’t keep pretending. Things are different now. You know, after that party a few weeks ago… when we almost…”

“Oh… It’s this memory.”

“I’m saying… I really did want to, that night, and it wasn’t just the beer talking. I wanted to kiss you. I… like you, Maya. Like, a lot. I really like you.”

“I really like you two, Ash. I love you. But I’m supposed to set you up to say-”

“Yes!” she exclaims, punching me in the arm. “Oh my god, as if it weren’t obvious. I’ve been staring at you ever since.”

“You were so obvious about it too.”

“And you’ve been freaking flirting with me-

“I was not subtle either.”

“Just… I didn’t want to ruin what we have. You’re my best friend, May.”

“You too. God, does it make me a bad friend the amount of times I’ve dreamt about us sleeping together?”

“More intimate?”

“I keep dreaming about you. It’s no coincidence we keep ending up naked in my subconscious.”

Ashley’s eyes widen. I’m barely tracking her side of the conversation anymore.

“I’d… I’d like that.”

“You’re so beautiful, Ash. And brilliant. And-”

“Kiss me. Right now.”

Her hand grabs my chin, spins my head, and her ruby painted lips plant against my beige ones. Softness, gentleness, a thrill like lightning down my spine.

And then she pulls away. Her phone buzzes. I really do still curse that phone sometimes. She leaves.

And then she’s back beside me.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

This is odd. Definitely odd. I look around while Ash keeps talking, rambling as if nothing is wrong. I examine the park surrounding us to see if anything else is going on.

“Yes!” she exclaims, punching me in the arm. I briefly return my focus to her before going back to my search.

What the hell is going on?

“More intimate?”

I look over and spy something. It looks like a spot, hanging in the air. A red circle.

“I’d… I’d like that.”

Is that…?

“Kiss me. Right now.”

She grabs my chin, spins my head, and her ruby painted lips plant against my beige ones. I am briefly distracted from what seemed to be a floating button.

And then she pulls away. Her phone buzzes. She leaves.

And then she’s back beside me.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

I get up and walk over to the button. There it is, floating in midair, sticking out of a patch of my bedroom wall. There’s no wall around it, just a square floating at about head height. I look back at Ash, chatting away to the air on the bench.

“Yes!” she exclaims, punching nothing.

I press the button.

I wake up… I’m back on the bench.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

I look around. There’s the button again. I sprint and press it.

I wake… and I’m back on the bench. Shit!

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

I stand and run over to the button. Why isn’t this working?! It’s always worked before… before today anyway. It’s always been… my exit.

The button is blank. It should say Exit in neat little white letters. I can’t remember if it was blank in the other dreams. I don’t remember noticing, but I also wasn’t really paying attention. Maybe that’s what went wrong. The text is gone. It isn’t an exit anymore.

“Just… I didn’t want to ruin what we have. You’re my best friend, May.”

But that’s what I need now. I need an exit. I need to get out. I need… A pen. I think and think and… Ash always carries one.

I hurry over, even as Ash keeps talking.

“I’d… I’d like that.”

She reaches forwards and kisses the air, as I root through her pockets. And there it is. A pen. I run back to the button as she starts again.

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

I take off the pen cap and, carefully to avoid pressing it, write the word Exit on the button. It’s crude, but it’s dream logic. It just might work. With a final pen stroke, I press it.

I wake up in my bed. I roll over and immediately throw the photo aside and…

A red sticker.

I gasp with desperate relief. I flop back onto my bed. At last! I grab my phone and check the date, just to be sure. It’s the 17th, I’m not late for anything, and I am awake!

…at least I hope I’m awake.

I dismiss that thought. All the dream checks check out. I’m awake. I’m sure of it… but I was sure of it a few dreams ago too. I pinch myself, hard, and it hurts. At least I think it does. Would you actually know in a dream?

I shake off that thought. I might be going mad, I’m sure of that. All these dreams are driving me mad. I need to get away from sleeping. I get out of bed and go have breakfast. Cheese on toast. It’s all I’ve got in.

Around noon, I get a text.

Power outage at work. They sent us all home. Meet you in the park?

I’m up and properly dressed soon enough, heading out. It’s cold, so I’m wearing a scarf and a jacket. And Ash is waiting for me with two coffees and a big smile.

“You look great,” I say. It’s her usual outfit, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

“And you look… Actually, you look awful. What’s up?” She offers a coffee.

I drink it, hot and strong. And it’ll keep me awake, which is a plus.

“I think I had the worst night’s sleep ever,” I explain.

“How so?”

“I just kept waking up. Like, dreaming that I was waking up. Again and again and again. Levels upon levels of dreams and nightmares. And… you were there. All the time.”

“Me? In a good way?” She sips her coffee.

“Sometimes, yes. We were always together,” I reassure her. “In some of them we were even married.”

“Really?” she says cheerfully. “Didn’t know you were the commitment sort.”

“I’ve made that mistake before,” I chuckle. “But this dream was nuts. I just kept waking up again and again and… sometimes things happened to you. And sometimes I just realised I was dreaming and had to wake up. But I couldn’t. It was messed up.”

She leans against me, head on my shoulder. “I’ve warned you about that lucid dreaming stuff. Messes with your head. Lose your grip on reality.”

I smile. “One of your other selves said that too.”

“Well, listen to her. Sleep is just for your brain to process things. Leave it well enough alone.”

“Maybe. Maybe there’s a way to unlearn it.”

“You’d better hope so. You’re not doing your dream walking when we share a bed.”

“Your other self said that too.”

“Oh? And what did you say?”

“I pointed out the allusion to us sharing a bed… and then she said she wouldn’t stay around mine because of the dirty floors.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

“I have tidied up though!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“And when will you see it?”

She turns her head and quirks an eyebrow. “Are you asking?”

I go to answer. I want to say yes, oh do I want to say yes, but even so… “Maybe not tonight. Let me get my head together.”

She sits up. “That dream really messed you up?”

“Dreams. I lost track of how many.”

She looks worried. She wears her heart on her sleeves. “Maybe we can just go back to yours and watch some TV. Get your mind off it all.”

“Yeah, that sounds-” I pause. Ash is looking over my shoulder. Fixedly.

A terrible sense of déjà vu creeps over me.

“Is that guy watching us, May? It’s not your creepy ex, is it?”

I turn around. A man in a trench coat. I stand and drag Ash away from the bench. “We should go.”

The man follows. But not running. And it isn’t a man.

“What’s your problem?!” Ash stops to confront them. They’ve got a hood up but they’re definitely a woman. And that coat. I think I knew someone who owned a trench like that.

“What are you two doing?” the voyeur asks. Her voice is familiar.

“I’m sorry, do we need permission to sit on a bench?” Ash challenges. Her voice is the same.

“Perhaps, if you’re sitting with my wife.” The hood comes down.

Oh no.

Ash appears beneath the hood. Older, slightly, and hand adorned with a wedding ring. Girlfriend Ash doesn’t seem to notice. She’s just affronted by the accusation.

“Wife! She’s my girlfriend, lady. I don’t know what asylum you escaped from, but-”

“Maya?” another voice joins. “Who are these women?”

Both Ashes turn. Another Ash is running into the park. She’s wearing the same outfit from the day we first kissed.

“I…” I can’t even answer. The two other Ashes both huff.

“Stay away from my girlfriend!/wife!” they say in unison.

“Girlfriend?” First Kiss Ash turns her eyes on me. She looks hurt. “You have a girlfriend?”

“No!” I frantically explain. “It’s not like that.” That just angers the others.

“Oh, and what am I?” Wife Ash demands.

“Are you just picking up floozies?” Girlfriend Ash concurs.

First Kiss Ash comes up and pokes me in the chest. “Then who are they?”

My brain is spinning. My mouth flaps soundlessly. First Kiss Ash rounds on the other two.

The resultant argument is lost on me. Three voices, all identical, all seemingly unaware that they’re the same person. But I’m still dreaming. I have to be. There’s no way this is real!

“Maya?” another voice joins the conversation.

“Oh no…”

There’s another Ash with tears streaming down her face. “How… how did you get away from that lunatic?”

“I…”

“And who are they?” Without a word, she joins the growing argument.

“Maya?”

Another Ash and this one… This one is naked. Or as naked as my imagination can create. She’s like a Barbie doll, smooth areas, all the same shade of brown. She sees the crowd and sprints into it, creating a ripple of distress from the others.

Another few Ashes sprint into the park, Real Estate Ash, Nightmare Ash, all joining the gathering throng. I step away, my brain screaming, unable to cope. I can even see the Ash in the crowd who keeps looping!

And then someone throws a punch.

The argument clearly hits a critical mass, as Wife Ash punches First Kiss Ash and Girlfriend Ash gets someone in a headlock. Shouting, screaming, there’s even some biting. It turns into a mass of flailing limbs, bruises, fists, all merging into one. Merging and melting.

A hand hits a chest and sinks into it like melting plastic. An Ash in a headlock winds up merging with the arm locking her. One Ash goes to headbutt another and winds up combining their foreheads into a hideous mass. They keep fighting, seemingly unaware, morphing into a morass of flesh and clothes. Skin sluices between them, bones and ribs protruding where skin moves away. Strands of muscle combine and intertwine.

I watch in morbid terror as the thing takes some sort of shape.

An amalgam of legs, legs made out of smaller legs, keep it aloft. The torso is vaguely humanoid, but about ten times larger, with ribs and random clothes jutting through the skin. There are nine arms, two made up of smaller arms like the legs. And there are five heads, each twitching out of the lumpen shoulders, Wife Ash, Tearful Ash, and three others that just look identical. Two of them are speaking.

“I AM REAL!”

“I know we’ve known each other a long time-”

The central one twitches and looks down. It’s eyes are missing, lost somewhere in the mass of organic horror.

“Maya? Who are these women?” it says with a mouth full of tongues.

My heart is pounding. My skin’s cold as ice. I’m aware that I should be vomiting, I feel like I should be, if I were conscious. But I’m not. I’ve got no stomach to vomit with!

“Kiss me. Right now,” it says. It reaches for me.

I try to run but it’s too fast. A massive limb with far too many fingers grabs my wrist, pulling me in. Into its arm! Ash’s flesh melts around my wrist, my arm dissolving into it. I fall back, flailing, trying to wrench myself free. My other hand grabs something hard. I bring the rock round like a hammer and smash both our wrists.

Hers explodes like molten clay, splattering over the ground. I feel nothing, but it looks like I’ve shattered my bones. But it doesn’t matter. I get up and run. Vast, squelching footsteps follow, a cacophony of voices echoing after me.

“-it wasn’t just the beer talking.”

“I AM REAL!”

I run and reach the road. There are ambulance men. A new Ash hobbles over the sidewalk, neck and head dangling, blood and bones protruding. I ignore it and run.

I hit my front door and launch myself inside. I stop briefly on the stairs, morbid curiosity wondering what it will do. An arm of arms smashes in and then melts, flowing across the floor after me. I abandon my curiosity and slam my bedroom door. The mass hits the other side. There are faces at my window.

“WAKE UP, MAYA!” the heads scream.

I throw the photo aside. There’s the button.

The words “Wake Up!” are carved into the plastic in white lettering.

I hit the button.

I wake up in my bed. I sit up and scream.

I’m alone. I’m 25, I think. I throw the photo aside and see a sticker, but that’s no comfort anymore. I run to the window and look out and it’s the street I’m expecting to see. But doesn’t that just sum it up. It’s what I’m expecting to see.

Even as futile as they seem, I perform my dream checks. Prince Antoine, the right number of hands and fingers, definitely breathing, I’m panting for breath actually. I head downstairs.

Everything is normal. No Mum, no dog, no Jeff. No library of memories, no Ash making me a dinner of towels. Just… my house. I check my phone and it’s the 17th. I check my calendar and my only job is tomorrow. My finger hovers over the button to text Ash, but I don’t know if I can handle that right now.

The image of flesh flowing up the stairs behind me… Oh god! My stomach turns.

I run to the bathroom and throw my head into the toilet bowl. My stomach wrenches, not that it has much to throw up. I wind up dry heaving into the porcelain.

I couldn’t vomit in the last dream. Is that a good sign?

Finally, my stomach settles. Barely. I’m sat on the tiled floor, ready for anything to set me off again. Maybe I have a fever or something. That would explain the hellish dreams. I check my forehead, but I don’t think I’m running a temperature. Did I eat anything that would have upset my stomach last night?

Cheese on toast for dinner… and lunch. I really need to go shopping. Was it just a fucking cheese dream?

I get up and cautiously migrate to the couch, weighing up if I’m going to need a bowl or anything. My stomach is settling, but I still try to avoid thinking about… that.

The TV distracts me. I remember Ash advising it in the last dream, but I stop thinking about that, quite by force. I smack myself gently in the temple to distract myself. And it hurts, I think. Is that a good sign?

Noon comes around and there’s no text about a power outage. Another good sign? The day crawls by, me unable to do anything. My sickness stopped hours ago, but the thoughts are unrelenting. Prising apart the dreams, like peeling layers off a horrid Pass the Parcel. How many times did I wake up? How many times did I kiss her? How many times did she die?

What does it all mean?

Finally, five o’clock rolls around. I haven’t eaten all day, but I don’t want to. Ash texts me and asks if I want to meet at the park. I say I’m not feeling well.

A short while later, there’s a knock at the door. I get up to answer it.

“I brought soup?” Ash offers, bargaining to gain entry.

I smile. Despite everything, I smile. She’s amazing.

“What kind?” I ask as I let her in.

“Chicken, of course. That’s what you give sick people. What’s wrong anyway? You look dreadful.”

“Not sure,” I answer, fairly honestly. “Terrible night’s sleep. Just… nightmares.”

“Oh no!” She joins me on the couch. “Have you eaten today?”

I shake my head. She smiles sadly. I remember that smile melting off a dreadful face.

“Tell you what, I’ll heat this soup up, we can get some food in you, and we’ll spend the evening watching movies. Whichever ones you want. Even the scary ones,” she says with a hint of trepidation.

“I… couldn’t handle those tonight,” I reassure her. “I’m so tired, but I do not want to sleep.”

“Then let’s do something else. I’ll go and get your blanket and we can snuggle up on the couch. But first, soup.”

Ash hurries off to the kitchen to throw the soup into the microwave, and as it turns, heads upstairs to retrieve the blanket. I am soon huddled in the warm duvet, and Ash returns with two bowls and something tucked under her arm. She puts the item to one side while we eat, watching some bland noisome television, but the soup is good. Warm and restorative. It’s dark outside now and she is cuddled up beside me. And I am at home. Happy. Warm. Fed. In love. With her. And it’s almost been a whole day. I still don’t want to sleep, but maybe if she were beside me...

"Did you want to watch a movie?" Ash asks, her head on my shoulder.

I consider it, but no. “Not right now. But we should see what else is on. I’ve seen this episode a hundred times.”

“I was thinking,” she says in a leading way, “I did loan you that book ages ago. Have you read it yet?”

“The Ballad of Prince Antoine?” I say. My stomach tightens.

“Why don’t you read it to me? It’s almost poetry and that could be quite… romantic.”

She retrieves the book from where she tucked it away, dropping it in my lap. My heart skips.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know if its my sort of thing.”

She tugs at my arm. “How will you know if you don’t read it? And besides, it’s always good to broaden one’s horizons.

“Are you sure you couldn’t read it to me?” I dodge.

She narrows her eyes. She can always see my nerves. She leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

“It’ll be fine, Maya. Just read it. If you’re not enjoying it, we’ll stop.”

I stop and breathe. I feel nauseous again. And then I wonder what she’s thinking, me, scared of a book. I’m a professional photographer, I shouldn’t be scared to read aloud to my girlfriend.

“Alright,” I sigh. I crack the spine. I open the first page.

“The Ballad of Prince Antoine, by Simon Morpheus. Published by-”

“I think you can skip that bit.”

I nod. I turn the page. “Chapter One. Once upon a time, there was a very handsome man. His name was Prince Antoine.” I pause to look at her. “Do you really think I’ll enjoy this?”

“It gets better in a minute.” She snuggles closer.

I roll my eyes. “Prince Antoine was a kind and wonderful man, whose father ruled the kingdom kindly and fairly. But one day, a sorcerer arrived in the land, a man of wicked intent and dark magic- Are you serious about liking this book?” I interrupt.

“It was my favourite book as a kid,” she pouts. “Didn’t I tell you it was a kid’s book?”

“No, you didn’t. I was expecting a… classical romance or something.”

“Do you like classical romances?”

“No, it would have bored me to tears. But you seemed interested in it, so…”

“That’s sweet,” she snuggles in again. “Come on, keep reading. And poke me if I nod off.”

“Will do.” I clear my throat. “-wicked intent and dark magic. He walked up to the castle gates and demanded ‘Wake up the king. Wake up King Maya so I may speak with... King Maya?” I ask.

“It’s part of why I wanted you to read it,” she shrugs.

“Odd name for a king.” I clear my throat again. “‘Wake up King Maya so I may speak with him.’ ‘Nay,’ said the guards, and with a wave of his hand the wizard turned them into frogs. Ha! I’m liking this guy already.”

“My dad always used to boo when he read the evil wizard’s bits.”

“I can see why. Anyway- Next he approached the guards at the castle door. ‘Awaken King Maya’ he demanded. ‘Wake up Maya now!’ But the guards asked why? He would not answer, and turned them into newts. Huh. Guys working his way through the amphibians.”

“He does an axolotl next.”

“Seriously? Seems advanced for a kid’s book?”

“Read on and find out.”

I look doubtful but read on. “Ahem… He then approached the guards within. ‘Wake up, Maya! Wake them up now!’ but the guards brandished their arms and were turned into mice. Finally, Prince Antoine arrived, facing the villain. ‘What do you want?’ the prince demanded. ‘Wake up, Maya!’ the wizard roared.

I turn the page.

WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA WAKE UP MAYA-

I leap from the blankets. I scream. I throw the book into the mirror over the mantle as Ash looks on in terrified confusion.

I wake up in my bed, slow and sluggish, eyes blurry and sleepy. That’s until the adrenaline hits. I bolt upright, heart racing, very nearly sweating and-

“Maya? What’s wrong?” Ash bolts upright beside me, gripping the blanket to her bosom. She turns on the bedside light.

“I had… a terrible dream,” I gasp and… this is my room, but it seems different.

“What kind of dream?”

“It was…” I look around. Dream checks, I reach for Prince Antoine and… It’s not there.

“Are you alright?”

The room is different. I never had a bedside light, for one thing. And we’re in bed together.

“This might be a mad question,” I hazard, “but are we married?”

She stares at me. She stares longer. She realises I’m not joking and shakes her head.

“No, we’re not. You’re just my girlfriend.”

“So we are a couple?”

“Well, we moved in together three months ago, and we had sex last night, so I’d hope we were some kind of couple, Maya,” she says sarcastically. “You’re definitely my girlfriend, Maya, but no, we’re not married. Not yet anyway. Are you sure you’re alright?”

I stare. This one’s different. “Sorry. It’s just… in my dream we were married.”

“Really? Didn’t know you were the sort,” she says somewhat happily. “Well, we’re not married yet. Not unless you’re planning on getting down on one knee right this second.” She looks at me and her brow creases with worry. “Seriously, May, are you alright?” She cups my cheek.

“It was just… just a really messed up dream.”

“A messed up dream where we’re married?” she checks. “I hope you’re not getting cold feet about living together.”

“What?”

“Commitment issues. I wouldn’t be shocked. I mean, I know how your past relationships ended.”

“Hey! Those were not my fault. I did not force Tabitha into that strippers underwear! Or Sarah to break into my house!”

Ash raises her hands in surrender. She gets up and throws on a bathrobe. She looks back at me, as I’m staring at the wall.

“May? You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

I look up at her. Gorgeous, wonderful her. This one feels different. Maybe finally…

“It was just a dream,” I reassure her. She nods in vague acceptance.

“You know what it is? It’s that lucid dreaming stuff you do,” she concludes. “Making you lose touch with reality.”

I nod. I can’t say she’s wrong.

“Maybe you should consider seeing a doctor about it. A dream therapist or something. Get your head right.” She breathes and shakes her head. “Anyway, we’re up now, and it’s a few hours before work. I’m going to go make some coffee. You want some?”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

I breathe at the edge of the bed. I count my fingers. I find a book and read it. I pinch my hand hard, and it hurts. It really hurts. But did it hurt last time?

I can hear Ash downstairs. This one feels different. Actually awake. I feel tired.

And this is a good life, right? Memory comes trickling back from sleep and tells me I’m right. Living with my girlfriend, my love. This is a great life.

And much better than what could come next.

But I am awake. I know it. This one feels different and my pinches hurt. And Ash is waiting downstairs.

But even so, I stare.

I stare at the photo, hanging on the wall. The photo of Ash.

And I try and spot what could be behind it.

#lamura dex writes!#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writing community #horror #short story #happy halloween #Lucid and Dreaming #Dreams #Lesbian #unreality #Nightmares #Body Horror #you voted for it #now please read it

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