The Dream

Fifth Place, Orange County Register's Dreamscape Writing Contest, October 1998 and The Oak, July 2000 Issue


The dream was always the same. Blue and green battling for dominance, trying desperately to take control of her world. She knew if one of them ever won, the dream would be different. But it never happened. Everything she saw terrified her. The grass on the ground, the sky above, caused an overwhelming fear that gripped her very soul. Her only hope was the big, white house in the distance. She had to get there because she knew sanity waited for her. But no matter how long or fast she ran, it always stayed just out of reach. A haunting reminder of a happier time. If she could reach it, she could stop the dream. But it always stayed just out of reach.

They called it deep depression. She called it hell.

Every day a nurse came to take care of her. But she never left the dream. Even when the doctors were telling her how to help herself, she was there. The dream was the only thing she saw. She wanted to wake up so much, wanted her life to begin again. But the nurses only clucked their tongues and shook their heads. Poor thing, they whispered, trapped inside herself. But I can hear you, she screamed, I can hear everything you say. They never heard her. Oh, why don't you answer me, she cried.

They called it a shame. She called it cruel.

Thursdays, they would take her into that little room and strap her down to that cold, hard table. They talked to each other the whole time. But never to her. Their hands constantly moved until she looked like a school science project. Then the humming would start, louder and louder, until she could hear nothing else. And then pain. It felt like hours before it was finally over.

They called it therapy. She called it agony.

One day a new doctor came to see her. He was cheerful and seemed to truly care about her. She heard it in his voice. The longer she listened to him, the harder it was for the dream to keep hold of her. Joy swept over her as she struggled to reach out to him, to tell him it was working. She could even see him, sitting on a chair, waiting for her. She ran, wanting desperately to reach him. He got closer, clearer. She could see the color of his hair, chestnut. His eyes, green as grass. Then he began to fade. He was leaving the room, telling the nurses that she showed signs of recognition. His voice became softer, farther away. And the dream got stronger. She screamed, long and mournful. Please don't leave me. But no one came, no one heard. Alone again she turned away from the empty bench and started running toward the house. Maybe this time she would make it. Maybe this time would be different.

They called it a breakthrough. She called it hope.