Nightmares.
Nightmares. Lately, i’ve seen them every night. It’s impossible to wake up feeling rested. I am pursued only by a chronic sense of tiredness the kind that stays with you after trying to escape something in a nightmare. The worst part is, when you wake up, the feelings they stirred up don’t disappear. They linger for a while, feeling like dirt on your hands.
The dreams are always different, the stories never repeat themselves, yet one thing unites them — it’s never terrifying at first, the horror comes later, suddenly, almost at the very moment of waking. As if meant to make you feel relief that it’s over, that you didn’t have to stay. As if hoping to compensate for the desire not to wake up, the obsessive thought that loops in your mind every night.
If a person dies in their sleep, do they stay in that dream forever? I hope not, because then I would be trapped in an endless nightmare. It’s hard to remember a day when I had a good dream.
It’s 4:37 a.m. My phone didn’t charge overnight, the cable must have slipped out. It doesn’t really bother me, of course, there won’t be any messages or calls anyway. At least, no one whose call I’d want to answer.
Be that as it may, I have to get out of bed, that hasn’t been comfortable in years, and go make myself some cheap coffee, bought on sale, as if that cheap slop could wake me up. I won’t be able to fall back asleep anyway. After all, I’m an adult. It’s not like I can run to my mother so she can pat me on the head and say: “Shh, shh. It’s okay. It was just a dream. You have nothing to fear.”
No, I wouldn’t run… but maybe I would be glad to, if I had the chance. The last time I talked to my mother, she told me I’d ruined her life.
The kitchen curtains have turned yellow, soaked through with the smell of cigarette smoke. I hate the smell of cigarettes. I should throw those curtains out.
Maybe people really do need someone by their side, someone who would comfort them after a nightmare, the way parents do for their children. Don’t adults have the right to want to feel safe in someone else’s arms? To feel their care? To have their presence alone make the nightmare mean nothing at all? If only it were that simple.
There’s nothing for breakfast again. I could make some sandwiches, but I wouldn’t be able to swallow a single bite anyway. I need to go for a walk.
There’s almost no one outside. Though what else would you expect on an early Saturday morning? The only people out are these hustling pseudo-businessmen, who probably haven’t even gone to bed yet, already rushing somewhere, forgetting what time it is, what day it is, how fast life is slipping away, how it feels like some kind of endless loop. Young people stumbling back from parties, swaying on unsteady legs, pushed along by the laughter of their friends. Drunk men in their forties, trying to drown the grief of their lives in alcohol, men who don’t even know where they’re going, who’ve already forgotten where, why, and when they started drinking, and who aren’t thinking about where to go next. In the end, trying to drown their pain, they’ll choke on the tears that never fell. A pitiful sight. But am I any better? They’re destroying themselves, but what makes me different? I just chose another way. Everyone suffers. But everyone suffers in their own way.
I didn’t think I’d end up here. I was so lost in my own thoughts that my legs just carried me here on their own. Though who am I kidding — I wanted to be here. This is our place, after all. Would she have comforted me after waking up from a nightmare?
Get Anna Lender’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I still remember how she smelled. She used cheap shampoo with that artificial apple scent, rose-scented shower gel, and some citrus perfume. Together they made a strange, not particularly pleasant combination, but it still perfectly captured every part of who she was. And the smell of cigarettes. The smell of cigarettes, as if it had seeped into her pores.
— You know, when you get all quiet like that, it’s pretty creepy, — she said, smirking.
— Sorry, I’m listening. I just zoned out.
— Yeah, well, never mind.
She scoffed, tossed her cigarette butt on the ground, let go of my arm, and ran ahead. Stopping, she turned around, her hands clasped behind her back, and suddenly her face grew serious. The wind picked up again, playing with her long black hair that gleamed gold in the sunlight. The leaves rustled so loudly I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Or maybe I had none at all. The wind died down, and she looked at me carefully.
— You know… — she leaned forward, looking right at me, but didn’t finish the sentence:
— I love you.
Silence. Not a single muscle moved in her face. No reaction. But that’s not surprising. She didn’t love me. And I didn’t know what it meant to love.
I’m standing where she stood that day. The day that completely changed the lives of everyone around us. How I wish I could wake up from a nightmare and have her be the one to comfort me. She robbed me of that chance. But she still won’t leave. She haunts me in my nightmares. She haunts me when I’m awake. I catch phantom whiffs of her scent, imagine the careful gaze of her brown eyes. But I can never see her. And I never will. I’ll never touch her again. I’ll never be able to stop her. All I can do is chase her through my dreams — trying to reach her, grab her hand, make her stop. I understand her. But I’ll never be able to forgive her.
It’s 7:54 a.m. The wind outside has picked up, leaves swirling in a wild dance. Only now, at this moment… I feel afraid. Did I really wake up from my nightmare? Or is it still going? What if I’m still asleep? What if I stay here forever? Maybe I should wait a little longer?
But like I said, I don’t remember the last time I had a good dream. No point worrying about that. The wind is so loud it drowns out my thoughts. The sun is slowly rising above the horizon, lighting up everything around me. I feel her gaze on me again. I step forward the way she did. I couldn’t stop her. And no one will stop me.
Translated by the author. Thank you for reading.
