Nightmare

T H U M P. . . THUMP. . THUMP. . thump, thththththththththth...

The beating of my heart at a speed of 200-beats-per-minute woke me -- it thumped so hard that there was pain. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness around me, I knew I was free, at least temporarily.

When will it stop? These nightmares -- the brutal killings, sinister villains, and my own impotent measures for escape -- come more frequently than ever. Even as a child I was never one to cry awake in the middle of the night from a bad dream. In fact, I was such a sound sleeper, I barely even remembered some dreams, and those that I remembered were just gae-ggoom, a dog-dream, which means a dream that has no meaning.

Now an adult, I wake up because my own piercing shrills awaken me from what shouldn't be called slumber. The dilated blood vessels form red cracks in the whites of my eyes, and I am always left panting for air. The moon floods the room with an iridescent light, and it is the witching hour. There is momentary silence, a vacuum, if you will, until reality creeps in and I can adjust to it, and hear the chirping of crickets outdoor, and the neighbor's cat making love calls.

Early this morning I had such a dream -- one that also left me out of breath from fright and one that made my eyelids slap open, like one of those blinds that roll up in cartoons when a little string is tugged. I saw the red LED numbers on my alarm clock -- 08:00. It was a dream.

But was it a dream? When you try to explain a dream, the harder you try to make sense of it, the more confusing it becomes. I can only say that mine was of terrorism. Men in head-to-toe orange came in, ravaged women and beat the men, killing them in the most brutal fashion -- no, not kill -- as death would have been too merciful. In my dream people lay with their eyes wide open, forced to watch the continuation of atrocities as they happen -- no solace would be granted. I scream, but no sound is made -- I am in a vacuum. I am in a vacuum because there are two conflicting positions -- if I scream, the terrorists would surely hurt me too -- if I don't scream... how can I not, when a man's skull was cracked open before my own eyes?

Cruel eyes -- why must you see? I want to shut them -- I want to be rid of this, but my lids won't come down, they just won't close -- I have to see. I want to persuade, I want to yell out "stop" but my tongue is frozen solid, and so are my legs, firmly planted where I stood, in the middle of madness, midst of a frenzy that was an overload for my sensory nerves. Too much to handle, and I'll break down. I must do something, but I am paralyzed.

They say that dreams reflect you, at an unconscious level -- maybe about someone you love, or happily eating mountains of carbs, or perhaps your fears. It is only after the nightmare starts to fade that it becomes clear -- I am leading a life of paralysis. I need to move, but I can't, because I am afraid to move, but I still need to move, and I still can't, and I am still afraid. A vicious circle. Paralyzed with fear. The most cruel thing to do to yourself -- and yes, it is something I inflict on myself -- I am a victim of my own doings.

The nightmares come more frequently these nights. I pull up the blankets, upto my nose, with trembling hands, preparing for another battle within.