Ash Magazine Issue 2
Page 4
Then that hour wasn't enough. I'd wake up angry because the good part of whichever fantasy world I entered had just begun. I took it out on my secretary one day and she reported me. One reprimand was no big deal with my work record, but when my naps started at ten and ran until two my boss took notice. Yet another reprimand, but being a junkie I ignored the negative consequences of my addiction. I had to get back. Someone in the dream needed me there, wanted me there. Who else in the waking world could understand me as well?
There were no further reprimands. I was fired without severance. My job status was easy to hide at first. I'd leave the house in the morning – Nyquil in tote – and head to the park or public library depending on the weather. Librarians and police woke me on occasion, but for the most part I could dream away for up to six wonderful hours.
My unemployment didn’t go unnoticed for long. There's only so long you can hide a lack of income when you have a joint checking account and the mortgage is due. For the lie, not for the job loss, I was dumped."I had such great dreams for us," was all my dear one said before closing the door. I didn't mind. I could dream about her anytime I wanted.
The following weeks brought me exceptional visions. I slept great having the bed to myself. I no longer woke up cold from the covers being yanked off or balancing on the mattress edge while someone sprawled across the bed. I could take my wine without guilt or nagging and celebrated the end of my Nyquil consumption.
I dreamt. I slept. I was happy. But it couldn't last. It's not that I had a problem with my sloth. I was content in my dream world, but the mortgage company expected payment I couldn't deliver.
I lost the house. My bed went with me to my sister's.
One night the television aired a program on coma patients. Researchers stated that, despite conventional wisdom, the patients were showing brain wave patterns similar to people in a dream state. I never knew I could be so interested in comas.
"How do people end up in comas?" I asked.
"Usually major trauma to the brain – injuries, infections, overdoses. I think of it as the brain shutting down the body to protect itself." I couldn’t imagine darting in front of a car to achieve what I was thinking. There was too much risk for ending up dead. But a coma, a way to always dream; how wonderful.
"They can induce comas, right?"
"Sure, generally to reduce pressure in the brain."
"What if someone wanted to be induced?"
"Your life’s not that bad. Besides, no one is going to ‘treat’ you now that you don’t have insurance.”
"You have access to hospital resources. You could do it as part of an experiment."
"You're crazy. Why would you do this?"
"You’ve spent years researching addiction."
"But most people’s dreams don't bring about a dopamine surge capable of causing addiction." She spoke sternly, but the glint in her eyes gave away the interest she was trying to hide.
"Exactly, so study me. Take me as a research subject. Knock me out, hook me up, and analyze my brain. Hell, you can even shave my head and stick probes in, like you do with your mice. Whatever. Just let me dream."
She was hooked. The novelty of the concept was too much to resist. She arranged for me to spend three nights in a sleep lab to obtain a baseline reading and then bribed a physician to induce and monitor me. My darling sister padded the grants to fund my care.
Now, everything has been prepared. Today is my last day in the conscious realm. I told her to keep me under until the project couldn’t be funded any longer. It could be ten days. It could be ten years. I should want to walk in the park, go to the zoo, bungee jump, something. I don’t. I just want to dream.
As the light of my consciousness fades I don't think I've ever been happier.
Constellations
By Nicholas Utke