THE OTHER SIDE OF DREAMS
Jennifer Tilson
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PRONOUN
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Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Tilson
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
ISBN: 9781537864648
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
More by Jennifer Tilson
DEDICATION
To my wonderful and supportive husband for the invaluable feedback of “It’s okay.”
And to Emilee, for giving me the motivation to write this even though you’ll never finish reading it.
CHAPTER 1
“I’VE HAD THE SAME DREAM for as long as I can remember. He’s always there, protecting me from the darkness. I have a chance to save him, but I don’t. I’m frozen, too scared to move. I sit there, crouching in the shadows, waiting, hiding as the monster comes for him. He doesn’t scream or make a sound. He accepts his fate knowing it will save me.” My teeth release their hold on my lower lip bringing fresh blood and the all too familiar sting. The metallic taste fills my mouth as I run my tongue over the sensitive area before continuing.
“Nothing really changes about this dream. The man, the monster, the place, it’s all the same. The only thing that changes is me. The me in the dream has aged just as I have. So now instead of a small child hiding in the shadows, I’m an adult who’s still too afraid to do anything. I know it’s merely a dream, but I can’t sleep anymore. I can’t watch him die anymore. It’s eating me up inside, this feeling, like it’s my fault, like his blood is on my hands. Once I finally build up enough courage to peek out of the shadows, he’s gone, and I wake up screaming.”
His fountain pen scrawls across the paper between his wrinkled thumb and forefinger drawing my attention. My eyes trace the continuous movement, but I can’t decipher which words the scribbles are supposed to represent. He’s been taking notes since the beginning of this session but hasn’t bothered to mutter a word after this morning’s pleasantries. Unlike the previous psychiatrists, he just sits there quietly writing in his yellow, legal notepad. I hate the way all psychiatrists take notes. Sitting sideways with your legs crossed must have been a lesson I missed in psych class. When I raise my eyes to discover him looking back at me, I realize he’s waiting for me to resume my monolog. “The dream didn’t always happen every night. When it started, it was only once a month. But each year it comes more frequently and ever since last month, my twenty-first birthday, it’s been every night.”
I’ve told this same story to three other psychiatrists with the hope that one of them could help me or at least tell me how to stop this dream. They always have the same answer. It’s just a dream, a representation of my control issues or internal conflict. I could accept that theory if the dream hadn’t started coming to me at the age of six. What internal conflict could a six-year-old possibly have?
This is my second session with Dr. Delaney, and the second time he has worn the same yellow shirt with a blue ink stain on the corner of his breast pocket. Clearly, he isn’t worried about how his patients perceive his appearance. During our first meeting, I spent most of the hour asking questions he would never answer; why a person would have the same dream over and over, why there was someone in my dream I had never seen before, and why I was the only thing in the dream that changed. He had the same answer for each question. “Dreams are different for each person, and similarly, one can interpret their dreams differently.” A lot of good that psychobabble does me. I need answers, not vague comments. This time, I decide not to waste my time and do most of the talking. I’m surprised when he pushes up his gold-rimmed glasses and actually speaks at the end of my speech.
“Dreams are always up for interpretation. Have you ever considered if this mystery man is a reflection of your mother? Maybe he doesn’t age in the dream because you never saw your mother age. She died while you were just a girl, perhaps this dream is a symbol of how you felt helpless when she died.” The dream didn’t start appearing to me until two years after my mother’s passing, so this is the first time anyone has connected her to it. When I explain this to him, he simply replies with, “Tell me about your mother.” I hate when people ask me about my mother.
“What is there to tell? She died when I was four years old. I barely remember anything.” I would love to be able to talk about my mother, but I know only the small fragments of her life my father told me. And since he and I haven’t spoken in three years, there’s little chance of getting any new information.
Of course, Dr. Delaney isn’t satisfied with this answer. “Instead of focusing on what you do not know about her, why don’t you try telling me anything you do remember?”
This is easier said than done. What does anyone remember from the age of four? Deciding to humor him, I take a deep breath, close my eyes and try to remember. The second psychiatrist I met with, Dr. Parin if memory serves, taught me a little trick; breathe in through my nose for four seconds, breathe out through my mouth for eight seconds. He told me to use this whenever I feel angry, stressed or scared. Ironically, I’ve only ever felt the need to use this trick while talking to the psychiatrists.
I continue to breathe in this manner and think of the little I do remember about my mother. The lavender smell of her lotion, the raspy sound of her laugh, the taste of her peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies. The way my father would sneak one into my room without her knowledge so I could eat it before dinner. I’m chuckling to myself when it hits me, like a freight train to my memory. I remember my mother sitting beside me while I lay in bed at night. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” I can hear my mother’s voice as I recite it to Dr. Delaney.
“Is that something your mother used to tell you?”
I slowly nod my head as I replay the memory. “Yes, it’s an Eleanor Roosevelt quote. She used to read it to me every night before bed.” Why haven’t I remembered this before now?
Dr. Delaney’s leather chair crunches in protest as he shifts in his seat. “Do you remember anything else?” I shake my head in response. If I’m going to remember anything more, I don’t want to do it here with someone analyzing every word. “Well then, it looks like we are out of time, but I do believe we made some progress.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. Before now, I only had bits and pieces of my mother from my broken memories, and the little tidbits my father gave me. I know what she looks like because of the picture I took from my father’s room when I was younger, and I know the sound of her voice because of the answering machine my father kept in his closet, but now I also have this memory. I was lying in a small bed with a mermaid blanket and a clamshell pillow, I carried that pillow around with me everywhere. My father was sitting at my feet and my mo
ther kneeling beside me. Her short black hair framed her face in layers, and her green eyes reminded me of the forest after a good rain. This is the only real memory I have, but I know we did that every night. I can even smell the coconut of her shampoo when she would hug me goodnight. They would tell me a story, read me that quote, and whisper sweet dreams.
All I can think about during the walk home is that memory. Why would my mother tell me that same quote every night? There’s no beauty in my dreams, at least not anymore. There’s only darkness and fear. A shiver snakes its way up my spine and goosebumps freckle my arms. “Hey there Nadia, it’s a bit nippy out today, isn’t it? I heard about the raccoons making a mess out of the trash cans yesterday morning. Silly critters.” The route from Dr. Delaney’s office runs past Mr. Maxon’s convenience store. At 88, he’s the oldest person in Clovis, but his age isn’t what he’s known for. It’s his kind spirit. More often than not, when I pass his store, he’s outside smoking, and he never lets me pass by without a smile and a wave.
I hear him speak, but I’m too caught up in my thoughts to comprehend what he says. “Oh, it’s great Mr. Maxon, thanks.” I smile and return his wave. From the look on his face, my assumption about his greeting is incorrect. I don’t stop to clarify, I hasten my pace and shoot him one more pleasant smile before returning to my all-encompassing thought, Dr. Delaney. He believes the dream has something to do with my mother, but I don’t blame myself for that. She died peacefully in her sleep. Nobody could have prevented it, much less a four-year-old girl. The doctors couldn’t even figure it out. They said there was no medical or logical reason a seemingly healthy thirty-year-old would have died in her sleep. There was nothing I could have done. I have never questioned that, so why would I be blaming myself and causing this recurring dream? There has to be another explanation, and I need to find it. This self-inflicted insomnia is starting to take its toll.
When I finally make it home, I march straight to my room. The room where my mother and father tucked me in at night. Of course, it looks different now. In place of the toddler bed is a queen size and the sea creatures that once adorned the walls are now replaced with pictures of my friends and me. I close my eyes as I sit on the edge of my bed trying to remember more of that night. Trying to remember more of her. I cling to that tiny shred of memory. We must have spent more time together in this room, but I can’t recall it.
I walk across the hall to the room adjacent from my own. The room that belonged to my mother and father. I haven’t been inside since my father packed his belongings and left the house for me. He said I was an adult now and needed my own place, but I know it was more because he couldn’t stand living here anymore, in the room where my mother died.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t opened the door in three years, I can’t face the room either. But it’s time to grow up. Perhaps seeing my mother’s possesions again will help me to remember her. I grab the doorknob and take a moment to prepare myself mentally. The last time I was in this room, my mother had just died, and I found my father sobbing on their bed. He didn’t know I was there, and I never told him about it. Her death hit him harder than it hit me. I guess at four years old, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I remember thinking she was away on business and would come back to us. It took a year for me to realize she was gone for good.
After mustering up all the courage I can find, I turn the doorknob and enter my parent’s room. No matter how long it’s been since they’ve lived here, this will always be their room. The door creaks as it swings on the rusty hinges, making impressions on the carpet as it opens. Their canopy bed aligns in the middle of the back wall with a dresser to the left and my mother’s vanity set on the right. I remember sneaking in here one night while my mother was away at a conference. I loved to play with her makeup. My father promised he wouldn’t tell her when he caught me with her purple eyeshadow. Her favorite purple eyeshadow.
I sit down at the vanity and run my hands against the soft wood top. A finger sized trail breaking up the blanket of dust. It seems much smaller than I remember. In the right-hand drawer, all the way at the back is the cherished eyeshadow. Using my ring finger, I gently apply a thin layer to both eyelids. My father always told me I look just like my mother. With the purple eyelids, I can almost see it. I place the eyeshadow palette back into its place and make my way to the closet. My father took all of his clothes with him when he moved out, leaving the left side of the closet bare. The right side, however, is bursting at the seams with. I step further into the closet gazing at her wardrobe. They still smell like her after all this time. Tears form behind my eyes, it’s too much. I quickly retreat from their room to the safety of my own. Closing my eyes, I fight back the tears.
All I want is a good night’s sleep, but neither the dream nor my psychology paper will allow this. I remember the kids in high school stressing over what to do next, but choosing a college major was a no-brainer for me. Psychology is the only thing that can possibly help me understand why I’m having this dream. There was no other option for me. After a couple of years of basic classes, I was finally able to start my psychology courses, but the answer I was hoping to find wasn’t there. I went through Intro to Psychology, Cognitive Psychology, and Social Psychology, and there was nothing to suggest why this dream kept appearing to me. My last hope and also the scariest option, Abnormal Psychology. If there were one word that could describe my situation, it would be abnormal, but even Freud’s beliefs on the psychodynamic aren’t offering any answers.
After finishing my paper, I need a new distraction. Staying awake all night isn’t a feasible option, but I want to delay the Nightmare as much as possible. The best way to accomplish this is an all-night horror movie marathon with Hanna. She and I have been friends since kindergarten. As a shy child, I kept to myself, but the day I returned to school after my mother died, this short, blonde headed girl with a crooked nose sat with me during lunch and told me that nobody who lost their mother should eat alone. She was there for me through that dark time, and no one has been able to separate us since.
I’m bringing blankets and pillows into the living room when the pounding on the front door begins. “What’s up scream queen? Are you ready to wet yourself with fright?” What I love most about spending time with Hanna at home, there are no expectations. No need to dress up or put on makeup. In fact, most of the time we look homeless.
She’s standing on my doorstep in pajamas, her hair thrown up into a messy bun, and a pizza box and a plate of chocolate chip cookies balancing on her left hand. No horror movie marathon would be complete without pizza and cookies.
“You do realize I’m not the only person in this neighborhood, right? You probably woke up old lady Barbara.” I step back leaving the door ajar.
She laughs almost dumping the plate of cookies. “Old lady Barbara needs a little fun in her life.”
I grab the food from her hands, keeping them off of the floor. “A little fun could be the thing to finally kill her. And just so you know, I have never wet myself. Except maybe that one time in pre-k.” She follows me into the living room, making herself comfortable while I set the pizza and cookies on the coffee table.
“What’s up first?” She grabs a slice of pizza, picking up the trail of cheese with her finger.
“I thought we would start out easy and go with a classic.”
She grunts with approval. “You definitely won’t be peeing yourself with such a PG movie.” Her words are barely audible with a mouth full of pizza.
The time flies by, and only three movies into the marathon, my eyelids grow heavy. I fight to keep them open, but it’s no use. Hanna is asleep with a cookie in hand, and the soft humming of the a/c is lulling me into sleep. My eyes close and just as quickly I’m back in the dark alley hiding in the shadows.
I look anxiously, but I already know he’ll be there. He’s always there. The man I fail to save every night. My eyes fall on his short, light brown hair. He looks over at me, as he does every ni
ght, with hope shining in his eyes. I want to scream, tell him to run, but I can’t find my voice. I can barely open my mouth. He stands there staring at the coward hiding behind the crate. I look back into his steel eyes until the howl echoes in my ears. The monster is coming. My heart hammers against my chest, and once again, he’s going to die. I’m going to sit here and let him die.
He finally averts his gaze from me to stare his attacker straight on, and I crouch lower biting at my bottom lip. As I close my eyes and cower, I realize I have never actually seen the monster. I’m always too frightened and embarrassed to actually watch the man die. I take a deep breath counting to four and release it slowly, not bothering to count to eight. This time, I’m going to look at the monster who has me running from my sleep. Opening my eyes, I twirl back around while remaining hidden.
The familiar pounding footsteps grow louder and louder as the monster charges forward. Once they stop, I brace myself and peek out further over the box. My jaw drops in disbelief. I can’t be sure how to describe what I’m seeing. It takes the shape of a giant bear but with the consistency of black smoke. But it can’t be smoke. The footsteps of smoke don’t make a sound, not that smoke can even have footsteps.
The man returns his gaze to me, locking his electric eyes on mine and not once does he look back at the beast before him. The monster releases another rumbling growl, but there’s no fear in the man’s eyes. Only hope. I can’t just sit here and let him die again. I scramble, trying to find anything I can use as a weapon, but there’s nothing nearby except empty cups and trash. What would one even use against smoke? A vacuum? Maybe a leaf blower? I need to keep the man safe. This time I won’t fail him.
I do the only thing I can think of and hop out from behind the shadows making as much noise as I can. I jump up and down, waving my hands in the air, calling to the monster. It rounds on me howling, but what now?
The Other Side of Dreams (Nighstalker Novels Book 1) Page 1
