Like any mundane day, I wake as usual: a sore jaw and a bad taste in my mouth. It takes hours for the pain to subside. I reach for the glass of water I leave on my bedside dresser every night for mornings like this. It doesn't fully rid the taste, but it does enough. I begin my methodical routine: brush my teeth, take a shower, wash my face, dress myself, comb my hair, eat my breakfast, take my medication, leave for work. No step goes undone.
I arrive at my office building, scanning myself in to access the elevator. I must ascend thirty stories to reach my office. I grip on to a railing inside the elevator, squeezing it so tightly that my veins protrude from my skin. I do a little squeeze every time the elevator dings as it passes a floor. Thirty squeezes total until the door opens and I am finally off that hellish ride. I have exactly nine hours to recompose myself before I must take the elevator back down to go home.
The people here don’t like me. I don’t really understand why. I wouldn’t say they hate me, but rather they are just indifferent to my presence. I am uncertain which one is worse, being hated or being unseen. It isn’t until lunch time when I typically say my first sentence of the day. In my four years of working here, I can confidently say that I only have one friend. We only talk here at work, so perhaps the proper word is acquaintance, but friend seems more acceptable. He is the only one to enjoy my rather gauche conversations and banal company.
He goes by Simon. He claims it is a nickname, derived from his full name, but I don’t know what it is, he has yet to tell me. He is a shorter man with a fairly round build and a subtle but constant twitch in his right eye. I told him that he should get that twitch seen by a professional of sorts, but he ignores my warnings.
Simon enjoys asking nonsensical questions. Two weeks ago it was, “if it was suddenly just a full moon every night, how long do you think it will take you to notice?” Last week he asked, “what if we both look at something blue, but my blue actually looks like your green, but we both call it blue. How do we know we’re seeing the same shade of color?” I don’t really understand the purpose of these questions, they serve no real meaning or value, I just play along for the sake of not losing him as a friend. Even someone like me needs a friend.
I sit down with Simon and he immediately starts, “If everyone in the world were to suddenly stop dreaming, how long do you think it would take for us as a collective to notice?” I haven’t even gotten the chance to greet him yet, but he usually never gives me the opportunity to anyways.
“Are you saying for it to be presented on news media?” I question.
“Sure,” he replies. “Or in any case really, like the media or just chatting or whatever. How long do you think, huh?”
I pause for a moment. I rub my jaw as the pain has almost fully subsided by now. “Simon, when was the last time you had a dream?”
“Last night,” he says, matter of factly, “but I guess it was more or less a nightmare. You?”
I think about the night and wonder, did I dream? I’m certain I did. It starts to come back to me. I remember being submerged underwater, I think. I was scuba diving, maybe. Or, no, I was free falling through the air. That’s right, I was skydiving. “Yes, I dreamt of skydiving last night.”
Simon gives me a shocked expression. “Skydiving— you still afraid of heights? I guess you had a nightmare too.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I am afraid of heights. Every work day I fear the cable hoisting up the elevator I’m in will snap and I plummet thirty stories. I believe it to be an irrational fear, yet I just can’t seem to shake it. “You’re right, it seems we both had nightmares.”
As the day goes on I think more and more about my previous nightmare. I am slowly piecing together lost parts to make that dream whole. I didn’t have a parachute. I was dropping hundreds of feet with nothing to stop my descent. I wasn’t skydiving, I was just falling. I remember crying and the tears flying up into the air. I tried juvenile tactics like flapping my arms or blowing really hard in the direction of the ground to stop my fall, anything to create some sort of stronger force of resistance. Of course, nothing worked. It was 200 feet from the ground, then 100, then 50. I closed my eyes and put my hands in front of my face, trying to shield myself from the inevitable. My face slammed into my knuckles, completely destroying my nose and cheek bone first, a mere microsecond later my palms hit the ground and my hands shattered. Every other bone in my body soon followed within that same second. I felt my body bounce off the ground; I remember hearing the sound it made as I pushed off the surface. I then remember waking up.
It is suddenly 3:32, and I have gotten minimal work done after lunch today for a data analyst. I say goodbye to Simon and enter the elevator and grip onto the railing all the way down the building. For my career, I think it’s best not to get lost in thought for hours like that again.
I don’t know why, but that day at lunch stuck out for me more than others. About a month has already passed since that conversation, but every night following that day, with the few dreams I do remember, I do not recall even one of them having been a peaceful dream. I sit down with Simon as usual, but before he can start this day with a brand new question, I am the one to ask him something first, “Simon, when was the last time you had a nice dream? I don’t mean a nightmare, I mean a genuine, happy, euphoric dream.”
He chuckles, “Wow, look who’s the one to ask the questions now. I honestly wasn’t expecting this today!”
“Please, Simon, I’m being sincere here.”
Simon’s face grows somber, “I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t know. I haven’t given it too much thought. Maybe it’s been a while, I’m not really one to remember most of my dreams, I’m sorry.”
Unfortunately, Simon is no help, and I have virtually no one else to turn to about my suspicions. I will have to resolve this alone. Work gets out and I purchase a journal. I read online that writing down your dreams every morning will help you remember future dreams better. I dub this my dream journal and set it on my bedside dresser. I will attack this like I do with any task I have at work. I begin my documentation. For the next four weeks I will add a step to my morning routine. Now, before brushing my teeth, even before drinking the water, I will write in my dream journal on what I remember dreaming about the night before. I will leave this dilemma at home so that it doesn’t interfere with my work projects.
It seems four weeks have passed oddly quickly. I compare the data, and my suspicions are starting to turn into fear. I was able to document a total of twenty-three dreams throughout the course of the past four weeks. As the days went on, my documentations became more frequent and more detailed. I read and I read and I read, and I see now that not one night did I have a peaceful dream, not even for a moment, they were all nightmares.
I put down my dream journal and gulp down my water. I feel myself starting to sweat, I’m even trembling a little bit. What’s wrong with me? It doesn’t seem normal to only have nightmares for this long. Do I need to restart therapy? Just how much longer is this going to keep on? I begin to pace around my room. I can’t stop these thoughts from racing in my mind. Before I know it, I’m already late for work. I brush my teeth, wash my face, dress myself, and leave for work. Now, in the elevator, I squeeze the railing twice as much.
I rush to Simon’s office and barge in.
He glances up at me in shock, “Woah, what’s the rush? Lunch isn’t for another few hours.” Simon looks over at his clock.
I tell him my findings. Everything I documented over the past four weeks. How, even before I started recording in my dream journal, that I don’t remember when I last had a good dream.
“Are you stressed? Is the project becoming too much for you? We can go to Carla at HR and let her know.” Simon’s eyes look worrisome.
“No, it’s not the project. This has been happening before we took that on,” I inform him.
“Are you sure this isn’t about your condition?”
“No. I’ve had that all my life, and the nightmares are recent in relation to that. It wouldn’t make sense.” I start to fidget, tapping my left pointer and thumb together three times every ten seconds and rubbing my jaw. “I don’t understand what’s going on, I don’t understand how to solve this. The only pattern I’m seeing is that the nightmares are constant but I have not changed anything in my daily life; everything I do is based on routine. This doesn’t make sense.”
Simon rises to his feet. “I think you should go home today. I’ll let someone know.”
I stare at Simon. I believe he’s right. I thank him and go home for the day. I don’t go into work the next day, or the day after. I have not missed two days of work in a row at all in my entire life. This is a first and I don’t like it, but I can’t concentrate at work when I am struggling like this. And I feel it is best not to spiral in a setting where no one seems to care about your wellbeing. No one, except for one. I should call Simon, but I don’t want to trouble him.
I seem to have developed a minor case of insomnia. Sleeping has become more difficult as of late. I don’t know how many more nightmares of my fears I can handle before I start to lose my mind. What was a consistent bedtime of eleven has now reached the late hours of random intervals anywhere between one and four. I sit in the silence of night, all alone, no one to accompany me at my worst. Believe me when I say that I have gotten used to being alone, but I do hate being lonely. Why am I unlovable?
Like my heart, my eyes become heavy. I take a final glance at the clock I keep at my bedside dresser, 3:52, and I fall asleep. I open my eyes, still facing the dresser, and I see that it’s 4:47. I need to use the bathroom.
I lug myself over to the bathroom. Once I am done, I begin washing my hands. I dry them, but before I leave, something grabs my attention in the mirror. I seem to be perspiring; however, it’s a cold night. I shouldn’t be sweating. I wipe the sweat off my forehead but it doesn’t feel right. I look down at my fingers and notice something on them. It wasn’t moisture that I just wiped off. It seems to be tiny grains of particles. I rub my thumb over them. They’re definitely solids, not liquids, almost sand-like. Why am I sweating a grainy substance? I look back up and I am no longer in my bathroom, I’m back in my bedroom. I look around and notice minor inaccuracies, like my laptop screen opened and flashing a white light in random bursts, my paintings hanging improperly and crooked, and finally the clock reading 3:33 when it was just 4:47. None of this is right… I’m dreaming.
My eyes slowly open and I see a grayish silhouette towering over me. I rise with urgency. My eyes, now wide open, are darting around the room as I’m rubbing my incredibly sore jaw, but I’m not seeing anything out of place. I’m not seeing anything at all. It’s too dark. I get up to turn on the lights. I scan the room again, but nothing. No one is here. I can’t do this anymore.
Three nights have gone by now without sleep. I’ve been doing whatever I can to stay awake, I don’t think I can go on another night. I haven’t been at work the past week either. Simon has been texting me, asking me about my wellbeing, but I’m ignoring him. Earlier today, I bought a small home camera at a security store. I attached it to my wall and angled it towards me and my bed. It came with an app I had to install so I can access the feed. For the past hour I have just been looking at myself through the camera on the app. I chuckle to myself. This is ridiculous. I’m losing myself over silly little nightmares.
I sit my phone down and calm myself. I can’t let this keep going on. I need to get back to work. I close my eyes and finally receive the rest I’ve been missing. However, almost as quickly as I lay my head down, I shoot up and cough onto the floor. It tastes like dirt or rock has been forced down my throat. I keep coughing, then I remember about the camera. I reach for my phone and open the app. I check the feed throughout the night. Although it feels like I’ve gotten no sleep at all, I can see on here that I was asleep for three hours. I scroll, checking every minute of every hour. I cough. I keep scrolling. I cough some more. I scroll. Nothing, I’m seeing nothing at all. That is until the 4:47 minute. The camera seemed to have glitched at the time. Is it because the camera is cheap, is it my wifi? I don’t know. I cough extra hard, squeezing my eyes shut from the force of the cough. When I open them again, I notice something that I didn’t before. Between each feedback there seems to be something. I don’t know what I’m looking at. It looks… uneven. It’s humanoid but not human. Bipedal but it doesn’t look like any sort of animal. I can’t make out the color of this thing because the camera only shows the image in a light gray coloring when it’s nighttime. I continue to look at the feed. It appears every other frame. It walks closer and closer to me. My coughs become more violent as the thing gets closer to me in the playback. I see it reach it out its hand, its fingers are disproportionate. They look inhumanly crooked. It reaches closer and closer, and I cough more and more, until I see it touch my jaw. The clock in the video then reads 4:48 and the glitching stops. Nothing is there anymore. I drop my phone, shaking. I start to feel my coughs in my chests, as if my lungs are suffocating. I need Simon.
I pick my phone up and drink the glass of water to rid this taste in my mouth but of course it doesn’t work. I dress myself and leave for Simon’s apartment. As I’m driving there I feel my jaw aching more and more. It feels like it’s tensing up. The coughing is worsening by the minute. I try calling Simon on the way there but he isn’t answering. I grip my steering wheel and begin to squeeze it in even intervals.
I reach Simon’s apartment and use the spare key he hides underneath a fake rock. I call out for him but don’t get an answer. The coughing is terrible now. I kneel over in his kitchen and almost hurl. My heartbeat feels irregular and my vision doesn’t seem steady. I get up and make my way to his bedroom. “Simon, it’s me. I’m coming in,” I say, feebly.
I open his bedroom door and see it. I am frozen in fear of the brute standing before me. It is the thing that I saw in my camera feed. It’s perfectly imperfect. Nothing about this being is symmetrical at all. One half of its body slopes down as the other half seems to rise up. Its left shoulder blade reaches up to its ear. The spine juts out from its skin and concaves down, its peak facing outwards instead of either side. Its left leg looks similar to that of a human’s, but its right leg looks like it was attached backwards. Its right pinky finger exceeds in length of its right middle finger, and both hands have a thumb placed on the right. A being of no rhythm, no pattern, a truly awful creature. It is dominating Simon, making his body look lifeless. I see it steadily forcing something down Simon’s throat. I cannot hold it in any longer, I cough. The thing stops. It retracts its fingers from Simon’s jaw, leaving it inhumanly agape. Simon’s lower jaw is down to his sternum. It turns to face me. Even its smile is crooked. It makes its way towards me, standing, towering above me. All I can stare at is that crooked smile, I’m too afraid to look it in the eyes. It raises its hand and shoves four fingers inside of my mouth, resting them on top of my bottom teeth. It places its other hand on the crown of my head, gripping it, sinking its fingers deep in my skin and penetrating my skull. In one quick motion, it pulls my lower jaw straight to my feet. I look down with only my eyes, I see it all: my molars, my premolars, my canines and incisors, I’m looking at them. I raise my eyes back to the creature, I see that its smile grew. The crevices of its mouth now reach to its ears, showcasing its hundreds, maybe thousands of imperfect teeth.
I begin to cry, that’s all I can do. Standing at its mercy, I see now that this is a being made entirely of a grainy material. It is a darkened, ashy-gray color, that of nightmares. The thing's chest opens up, and the sand-like material that it is entirely made out of begins to shoot out from its chest, straight into my open mouth. Gallons and gallons and gallons and gallons of this sand pours into my throat and into my esophagus. I feel it infiltrating my stomach. The human stomach can only hold so much. From what I can only imagine due to the pain, I believe it bursts because of the sheer amount of flowing inside of me. With nowhere left to go, the sand fills up and seeps into my lungs. My eyes slowly shut, the suffocation, the pain, it all being too much for me. The last thing I see is this thing's jaw opening wide enough to engulf a human body.