Page 2 of The Nightmare King

“Did that feel unreal, Lilac?”

My lower lip quivered as the overwhelming urge to cry washed over me. Not because he’d hit me, but because he wasn’t real, couldn’t be real, and I’d wake up at any moment just like I always did.

He stepped forward as if striding out of his pumpkin head and skeleton costume. The air around us swirled with purple and black smoke. The pumpkin man was terrifying… this man was, too, only this form was devastatingly handsome. A dark knight that could only be conjured in a dream. Taking my chin between his fingers he tilted my head up. “Kiss me and let me show you what else real feels like, oh, sleeper.”

I nodded, feeling warm tears stain the burning cheek in the wake of his palm. I felt it. I felt this, somehow, even though I knew I was asleep.

Groaning into his strong, firm body, his lips brushed my own, parting my mouth and flicking his tongue against mine. This phantom of my dreams tasted like maple and salt and sex. We’d fallen into this same dance over and over again. Sometimes, small details would change, but one thing remained: each time, I’d wake in sorrow that he wasn’t real and worry that I’d never see him again. That this figment of my imagination would disappear like water through my fingers. Because we can’t conjure our own dreams, as hard as I’d tried on the nights he didn’t visit me, I couldn’t make him appear. Which made this lucid nightmare all the more addictive.

The phantom’s palm pressed against my lower belly, sinking between my thighs. My core burned with want as I came apart with only one quick and firm touch. Forgetting for a moment who I was in real life, letting go of my true reality and breathing into blissful oblivion.

In sleep, I could die.

Sleep was death without the mess, the guilt, the commitment. If I slept the day away the day didn’t exist, I missed nothing, I felt nothing.

When I was awake, I longed for sleep while simultaneously hating everything—I felt everything.

Staring at the outdated ceiling fan, I steadied my breathing. My inner thighs slick with my desire and release, my core still pulsing from the dream, the nightmare—him. My right cheek was still warm, and I rubbed it softly if only to touch an imaginary piece of him left behind. I could try to go back to sleep, and I would have if my stomach weren’t tight with hunger.

My therapist’s chant echoed through my mind.

Just focus on the next thing.

Every step forward is a win.

Do small things to take care of yourself.

Assess whether this is a low, medium, or high day.

Morning checklist for a medium day:

Sit up.

Take my medicine.

Use the bathroom.

Wash my face.

Brush my teeth.

Eat breakfast.

My hand only slightly trembled as I unscrewed the prescription lid. The morning checklist was only slightly overwhelming. The urge to pull my blanket over my head and go back to sleep slowly slipped away, sliding down my throat with my little pink pill.

If I completed my checklists, I’d be extra tired. I could go to bed early, and maybe I’d see him again. That thought, that hope, would propel me toward another repetitive day in the waking world.

Sugar cereal, caffeinated coffee, (which my psychologist told me not to have but I did anyway), pepped me up enough to clock in only five minutes late at work. My apron wasn’t too heavy or tight, and the organic grocery store was slow.

Bananas were code 4011 and then weighed. Unless they were organic, those were 94011. But sometimes, if a customer was really nice, I’d weigh them as standard because that was cheaper.

“Hey, Lucy. Watch party for The Walking Dead at my place tonight. You coming?” Brandon abandoned his register and took post at my bagging station. A nice gesture, but I didn’t really mind bagging the groceries, it was the talking to the people I didn’t like.

I adjusted my name tag. “Zombies aren’t really my thing. Plus, hasn’t that series been off the air for years now? I think I know how it ends already.”

“Don’t be such a Debbie-downer. We’re starting from episode one and watching one a week. I know I’d love to see you.”

Brandon wasn’t terrible to look at. Tall and stout with sandy blond hair. If I were normal, maybe I would be attracted to him. Maybe if my dopamine weren’t broken, him asking me out would have given me butterflies. If my serotonin wasn’t store-bought, I bet him brushing my hand as he reached to refill my receipt paper would have made me giddy. But it did none of those things. Instead, my thoughts wandered to the nightmare man, and I calculated the hours until I could go back to sleep.

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