Waking

The house was empty, of that he was sure. So the alarm in his brain was hellish and most prevalent when he heard the words "Sweet dreams" muttered behind him…

“Get out of my head!” he screamed, his voice cracking to falsetto as he covered his ears in a futile attempt to make the voices stop. The voices that taunted him with their indifference, mocked him with their knowledge that the ones thing he kept hearing--”Sweet dreams”-- couldn’t happen. Not so long as they kept speaking.

How could he sleep when all he could anticipate were the horrors of what he would see, should he close his eyes and drift off?

Still, the longer he stayed awake, the louder the voices got. It had been 50--no, 52 hours now. Or was it 46? He tried to count back, relying on his fingers to help him keep track, but as he counted he forgot what each finger represented.

All he wanted was sleep, but every time he’d close his eyes…

Without conscious effort, even while thinking about the importance of staying awake, his eyes closed again.

“Sweet dreams.”

The voice, it never changed. It wasn’t sinister, it was stating a fact--like an alarm clock, timed to wake him up. Devoid of all emotion, uncaring, it was simply making a statement.

But that statement, again and again, was taking its toll on his very sanity. His eyes snapped open, and he willed himself to stay awake. He considered coffee, but his stomach flipped in protest--any more of that acid and he’d be liable to fall asleep in a puddle of his own vomit, never to wake again.

He willed himself to push those thoughts away--not an option. He would beat this. He would...he would…

He did scream as the voice spoke again, plain as day, with his eyes open. He was staring right at the coffee pot.

Or was he? He stared at the coffee pot for a few seconds, willing his heart to slow down for fear that it was about to pound its way out of his chest, and finally he forced his eyes open to find himself staring at the coffee pot.

He couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or closed.

“Sweet dreams.”

Was he awake, or asleep?

“Sweet dreams.”

He balled up a fist and slammed it, as hard as he could, into the counter. Pain shot through his fingers and up his arm. He gritted his teeth in agony, squelching the scream of pain into a whimper of defeat.

“Sweet dreams.”

He had to be awake. His tender knuckles assured him that he was awake.

“Sweet dreams.”

But that voice...where was it coming from?

“Sweet dreams.”

He opened his eyes again, the pain in his hand vanishing, but the voice remaining. He sensed it before he heard it, this time. He knew. He mouthed the words with the disembodied voice even as they appeared in his ear.

“Sweet dreams.”

Something was wrong here, but as he opened his eyes to the same scene again, he realized that there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.

“Doctor, this one seems to be exhibiting increased signs of distress that none of the other patients seem to be having.”

A nurse clutched her clipboard and stood over a small hospital bed. She looked at the young man, asleep on the bed, with some concern.

Absentmindedly, the doctor leaned back to view the electronic readout connected to the test-leads that ran to the young man’s body. The doctor tapped the side of the machine with a pen, frowned, then shook his head.

“Oh, his readings might be a little off, but I think they’re well within range. I wouldn’t worry about it.

The nurse wiped the beads of perspiration from the patient’s forehead with a cotton handkerchief. Something was obviously amiss, but if he didn’t wake up on his own, they would wake him in the morning, at the conclusion of the sleep-study.

“Sweet dreams,” she whispered as she tucked the handkerchief into her pocket.