Funny how one made-up man altered her dread. Not alleviated it, but the anticipation of his presence displaced her fear.
Ten o’clock. With her belly full and a book open on her lap, her eyelids drooped. She thought about staying in the chair, grabbing a throw, and turning out the light, but every time she did that, she woke up with a crick in her neck. And if she changed her routine from last night, her handsome apparition might not appear.
That got her out of her chair.
With heightened anticipation, she brushed her teeth and went to bed.
Streamers. Everywhere. Around her, above her, below her, in bright colors. So many, she couldn’t see very far. Couldn’t see her man. She pushed them aside, but they tangled around her arms and legs.
No!
The word came from her mouth in a bubble that floated upward, grew, and opened with a Pac-man mouth. Could Pac-man smile? Because she might have glimpsed that expression before the orb began gobbling up the streamers.
He sucked them in like spaghetti, all of them. Then popped.
And—she sucked in a breath—there he was. Her gorgeous specter, kneeling outside an odd dome she’d noticed in her previous dream. His hands were pressed to the barrier.
Okay, this was weird, but why not acknowledge him and see what happened? She waved.
Weird. He waved back.
She grew giddy and waved with both hands.
He grinned, and she did a backwards summersault in the air where she stood. A horse came out of nowhere and licked her face, his hooves had little tiny mice riding on them.
She wanted to climb up on the saddle and have the beast take her to the man, but there was a pumpkin on its back, and it galloped off. She turned back to her apparition.
“Darby,” she yelled, but he smiled and shook his head.
“Darby, Darby, Darby!” She tapped her chest, which became a giant notepad. Her finger wrote, Darby.
He looked astonished, but mouthed her name back to her.
She pointed. “You?”
His lips moved, but she’d begun to twirl. Trapped. A ballerina on a jewelry box. The music grew loud in her head while she fought the mechanism but continued to whirl. Hope grew, however, for each time she spun to face him, his fingers formed a letter.
H…
U…
T…
C…
H…
Hutch, she gleefully wrote on her chest, the tablet still there.
He nodded.
He was her dream-man, so she must have given him that name.
She laughed until a rocket appeared between her legs and launched her from her perch, bringing her skyward. Closer to him…closer… She reached out a hand and touched a cold surface that separated them. He laid his hand directly on the other side. She felt his warmth.
“Darby,” he said, his voice penetrating, moving over her like smooth chocolate.
“Hutch,” she replied, then fell, tumbling end over end, giddy for the connection, distressed for having lost it, plummeting into…a kitchen.
She scrubbed dishes with her feet. Clean, clean, clean. The soapsuds tickled her ankles, and when two eyes appeared in the foam, she shook her finger at them. Don’t distract me.
Hutch watched from above.
She felt it. Was heated by it. She inexplicably wanted sex with this man. After all, she made him. He was perfect in every way. The eyes in the suds waggled their agreement, sprouted like vines, and pushed her breasts up toward him. She laughed again. They presented her up, but when she looked, Hutch was gone.
Not interested? Had she offended him?
The vines twined around her, taking hold to pull her onto…the street.
No. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted more of her man.
Looking up, he was there again, this time shaking his head. She wanted to ask him, “What should I do?” but the paper on her chest was gone, and the vortex had her.
Sometimes she fought the pull, other times, like today, she let it take her without a fight. It never mattered. The end result was the same. She kept her gaze on Hutch as she was swept in. His eyes grew sad. They both knew what was coming.
She opened the door. She picked up the coffee pot. Filled it. Arkie buzzed out, she buzzed in and reached for the papers. The motions themselves were comforting. What would happen next was not.
The papers.
Where are they? She spun in place, looking around, then sent her gaze skyward. “Where are the papers?” she asked.
He shrugged, looking just as confused.
Did this mean…?
Her hands were free. She had a choice. Run and lock the door. Pick up the baseball bat and have it cocked, ready. Take her cell phone from her pocket and call the police. But indecision cost her. Before she could do anything, the two men came in. Within seconds, events played out, pain exploded in her head and she descended toward darkness. But not before she heard Hutch, yelling.
“Let me in, goddammit! I can help!”
When Darby woke, morning sun shone through the thin shade over her window. She blinked. She’d slept? Her hand went to the scar on her head, and she traced it with her fingers. When was the last time she’d slept the night through?
Before the attack.
“Thank you, Hutch.”
She felt giddy. Her nighttime fantasy man had given her a full night’s sleep, despite the nightmare. She was sure of it. For the first time in months, her head was clear upon awakening.
This is how normal people feel.
She leaped from bed, looking at the clock. Seven-o-five. Time to shower, eat and get to the shelter. Even though she was only a volunteer on the weekend days, she didn’t want to disappoint. If she didn’t show, the animals might not get fed on schedule. And every one of the mutts and pusses would miss her. They were going to get lots of love, because today, she had it in spades.
Determined not to waste a moment of her exemplary mood, she danced to the shower and sang a Donna Summer tune at the top of her lungs. When the floor was pounded from above, she laughed. Not a disco fan? How about some Wham? She sang louder.
Nothing that day destroyed her happiness. Not the flea infestation that came with the newest stray, nor the dog food delivery that didn’t arrive. She washed her share of pups while the kennels were bombed, and drove the shelter’s van to pick up industrial-sized bags of kibble.
All while anticipating the night to come.
CHAPTER TEN
A new day, but this time no dread unfurled in his stomach as he opened his eyes to the same fire, the same darkness, and his sleeping companion. Last night swirled in his head like Darby on her jewelry box.
Darby. She’d written her name. Which had astonished him. Clinically, only one percent of the population—those highly literate—had full use of the Broca and Wernicke areas of the brain during sleep and could write. Perhaps the powers that orchestrated this intervention had given her a control she normally wouldn’t have. Regardless, he was delighted.
“Morning.” His “roommate” woke grumpily.
“Good morning to you.” He couldn’t keep the chipper tone from his voice.
A grunt. “Somebody had good dreams last night…but it wasn’t me.” Paxton sat up, and with one sweep of his hand, his blond hair lay perfectly.
“Still nothing?”
“Blank. Nada,” he affirmed before his eyes narrowed in speculation. “You’re way too happy. Did you have sex with your dream woman?”
“No,” Hutch denied immediately. Although if he wasn’t mistaken, it had been offered. She’d presented her breasts to him. But how did that work? He was real… At least he thought he was. And she was in a dream state. And he’d been snatched from that vivid scene before he could see where it led. “But I know her name.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, huh. It’s Darby.” It wasn’t important to Paxton, but Hutch liked the sound of it on his tongue.
“You gonna write that down?”
He looked to
where his notes in the sand were getting copious and messy. “I’d love to, but the sand has lost its viability.” His medium suffered from their exercising, and it was only a matter of time before all the notes were destroyed. Also, he hated Darby’s analysis being on display to Paxton.
He stood up with a gut-deep resolve. “I need paper!” he yelled to the ether.
A yellow pad and a pen instantly appeared at his feet.
“What the hell, man?” Paxton jumped up. “You made that happen?” He turned his head upward. “I need… Ah, shit. I was going to say a hamburger, but I’m not hungry, which is fucked.”
Hutch bent down and reverently picked up his gifts. “Maybe we only get what we need,” he quietly pondered. “I, uh…”
“Go ahead.” Paxton waved his hand and turned away, clearly disgruntled…or jealous. “Do what you do.”
Hutch immediately sat and transcribed the notes he’d already taken, then chewed on the pen. It felt damned good having tools again.
He concentrated on the last two nights, and began to write.
Dream: A woman’s hands filling an éclair. The dessert replaced by a baseball with pens inserted to protrude and be lit on fire. An explosion. Analysis: Uncertain. Is the éclair filled by the subject or a loved one? Is it for a birthday? Why is it replaced by a baseball, and are the pens, candles? Why do they explode? This is more of a memory than a portent.
He moved on.
Dream: Lying on a beach. Surrounded by sand that shifts and buries her after she looks at me and raises a hand to reach me. Birds flying, carrying colorful ribbons into the sky until smashing against the barrier. Her face in a pool looking up at me. A rise, a playful turn and then a dive. Becoming naked. Entering the assault sequence, she begins, nude. The scene unfolds as before with one difference. This time she is aware of me, watching.
He attempted to ignore the remembered lure of her body, and continued.
Analysis: Once again the subject has trouble disassociating herself from present circumstances. She reaches for me, as a precursor for change, but is swallowed up by the sand. The birds indicate the same. A dash for a new reality, the colorful ribbons denoting optimism. Running into a barrier and having hopes dashed.
Her dreams had clearly played out as most of the others. The common, prevalent theme was her “stuck-ness”, her inability to move on with her life.
The spirited ascent, twist, and dive, as well as the flash of nudity, seems directed at me. Who does she think I am? Do I represent freedom?
Since he appeared in her dreams, she must assume he was part of them. Was she part of his, or a real person whom the great manipulator behind all this had presented—albeit in an odd manner—as a client? He wrote the questions down as part of his quest for answers.
Her clothing reappeared, which could mean she’s establishing some control over her vulnerability. Her awareness of me in the dream is certain.
He turned several pages and began a separate journal, which he entitled “Facts”.
Arkie’s is the name of the convenience store.
The man in the ski mask is blond. His eyes are black.
The attacker has a tattoo of a horned demon on the back of his neck
To the side, he drew what he could remember of the symbols on the forehead of the beast. They made no sense. They could be cyphers without meaning, random markings meant to look mysterious.
He flipped back to the dream pages and began recording the night just ended.
Dream: Brightly colored streamers. Subject’s presence obscured.
He had a hard time not writing her name, but at that point, it hadn’t been revealed to him.
Video game character eats the streamers and disappears. Subject waves at me, and I wave back which makes her happy. A horse appears, with mice and a pumpkin, then gallops off. She yells something at me several times, then a pad appears on her chest and she is able to write her name. Darby. She asks my name, and as I answer, she becomes a ballerina on a jewelry box and spins in circles. My fingers form a letter each time she faces me, and she understands. She writes “Hutch” on her pad.
His throat grew tight and warmth filled his chest recalling her acknowledgment. He’d said her name, and she’d heard him, for she’d intoned his, back.
She stands in a large sink and washes dishes with her feet. Two eyes appear and sprout vines, pushing her breasts toward me. It is inappropriate, if I truly am her therapist, even in a dream, to contemplate a physical relationship with a client. Reluctantly, I step back from the offer. The street and vortex appear, leading to the same assault and robbery, but with one twist.
He felt this was extremely important.
This time there are no papers. She asks me where they might be, and I have no answer. I see into her head, the possibilities that occur to her: Lock the door, pick up the bat, call the police. But the situation is new and she is not prepared for the change, so does nothing and the dream continues, quod est. Analysis:
He thought for a moment, then crossed out the last word, needing to make it more personal.
Darby seemed happy to see me, heralding my arrival with brightly colored streamers. I believe the horse, mice and pumpkin were a Cinderella fantasy, in which case I must be the perceived prince. She’s anxious to know my name, and inexplicably produces a tablet on her chest and is able to spell her own. Likewise, while on a jewelry box, she understands mine. The jewelry box could be something she held dear in her childhood that brought happiness.
When she washed the dishes with her feet, it made me think of change. Turning something on its head, doing the opposite of normal. Since it made her happy, my assumption? This is a good thing. The eyeballs on stalks and their actions are beyond explanation at this point.
The nightmare sequence, having one slight change, is heartening. It means, perhaps in some way, Darby is finally taking control. I hope my presence is making that happen.
He put his pad down.
“Finished with the night’s breakdown?”
“More or less.” He needed to share. “I think we’re getting somewhere.”
Paxton grunted. “Great for you and Darby, but what the hell happens when I get a turn. If I get a turn. I’m no shrink. How am I supposed to help someone who’s fucked up over something I did?”
“You’re reading a lot into this,” Hutch placated. “My situation may be different from yours. You may have a dissimilar reason for being here, something that has its own, unique solution. We don’t have enough statistical data to make assumptions.”
“See? The way you talk. It’s not me. I grew up rough, dug my way out. I don’t have anything fancy to offer.”
Hutch’s head flew back into doctor mode. “But you did dig your way out,” he stated pointedly. “Which says a lot for your perseverance.”
Paxton gave a bitter laugh. “It was either that or end up like my dad. Dead at Forty-seven of a heart attack from working three jobs and watching… Hey.” He drew back and scowled. “Are you doing your thing to me?”
Hutch held up his hands. “I’m only listening.”
“Yeah, but—”
A voice in the distance cried out. “Is anybody there?”
He and Paxton leaped to their feet.
“Here!” they both yelled.
Pounding feet heralded a new arrival.
“Thank God,” the man sobbed, stumbling into their circle. “I thought I was alone.”
Paxton grunted. “Not sure we have better news for you. It’s just the two of us, and we don’t know where the hell we are.”
Getting a look at the newcomer as he was illuminated by the fire, Hutch recognized the uniform of their African-American newcomer. “Airline pilot.”
“That’s right.” He looked around, his eyes wide. “And last I knew, I was headed down the concourse, ready to pre-flight for a round-trip to Mugabe International in Zimbabwe.”
“Well, shit,” Paxton grumbled. “Still fucking low man on the totem pole.”
“What?” The pilot looked confused.
“Nothing,” Hutch assured him. “What’s your name?”
“Gunnison, Gunni,” he offered, holding out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Gunni. I’m Hutch, this is Paxton, and if you want to have a seat, we’ll tell you what we know.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You think I’m here because I’ve done something wrong.” Gunni looked dumbfounded.
“That’s our understanding.” Hutch watched the man closely.
“But my job is getting people from point A to point B. I don’t make decisions that affect—” He stopped abruptly, then finished, more subdued. “…that affect people’s lives.”
There was a tick at his temple that wasn’t there before.
“Oh, man,” Paxton interjected. “Looks like you’ve been fooling yourself. Doesn’t take our friendly neighborhood shrink to notice you just thought of something. Wanna share?”
Hutch wished Paxton hadn’t said anything. He would have led Gunni into revealing his transgression in a more round-about way.
“Nothing to say,” the man mumbled, clamming up. He tossed his cap to the ground and loosened his tie. “Looks like attire is casual, so I might as well get comfortable. How long will I be here?”
Good question.
“I’m going on six days,” Hutch offered. “Paxton is working on his third.”
“Which means we get a new arrival every three days?” Paxton speculated.
“So far,” Hutch agreed. “But we don’t have much to go on. It could change.”
Gunni popped his dark jaw, one of a few nervous habits Hutch had already identified. “Have you figured out why only one of you gets dreams?”
“Not a clue. But the good news is, changes are taking place in mine, which could mean the problems I’ve encountered may resolve. Where that will leave me, I don’t know, but maybe once I’m finished, one of you will start…a process.”
“Meaning it might be dreams, and it might be something else,” Gunni guessed.
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