I hate my nightmares, but sometimes I hate the therapy sessions more. Oh, I’m doing them hoping they will help me get rid of the nasty dreams. So far, they haven’t helped one iota. Deep down, I still hope that this time I managed to unlock something inside me and I can go home and into bed. My constant hope is that I will get a few hours of decent sleep without waking up all sweaty and screaming. 

 “Doc, I don’t think these sessions are helping,” I tell my therapist while I’m looking at the buildings, trees, and traffic in the distance. Without paying attention to what’s happening outside, my mind focused on how I dread going to sleep. I even hate sitting on the couch for the required hour, so here I am now, standing near the window.  Given that I spend my workdays at a desk at the call center talking with clients, I need to give my body a break.

The rustle of pen on paper stops as soon as the words are out. I turn toward doc Morrison and, for a few seconds, I catch a glimpse of bewilderment on his face as he stares back at me. He doesn’t say anything for so long I start to believe I’ve rendered him speechless. 

Seconds tick by until I can’t stand the silence any longer. “So, what do you think?” After so many sessions, I ask him the same question he’s been asking me—I swear he’s done it just to annoy me.

He shrugs and then taps the pen on the notebook he’s holding. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. We’re not getting anywhere closer to help you understand your nightmares or get rid of them.”

If anything, they’ve become even worse in the last few weeks.

“There’s a treatment you could try. It’s called IRT—imagery rehearsal therapy—and it’s used for people with PTSD. It might help you too. Even if you never get rid of the nightmares, at least you could train your mind, so the dreams are less intense and not as frequent as they are now.”

Yeah, I have never heard of IRT until now. There’s no traumatic experience in my past. I keep dreaming of something that came straight out of horror movies. At this point, I’m willing to try almost anything if it helps.

Doc rummages through his coat pockets and then holds out a business card for me. “The doctor is a friend of mine. He’ll see you if you give him a call.”

I leave the comfortable spot at the window to get the card. Smiling ruefully, I grab the laminated paper he’s holding and tuck it in my wallet. “I guess this is our last session.”

He nods, a silent admission he couldn’t help me. I see no reason to continue our weekly sessions. Still, I get the feeling I’m going to miss the cranky old man.

He gets up from his chair and comes to shake my hand. “It was a pleasure working with you,” he says, squeezing my fingers in an enthusiastic grip. “Though I wasn’t able to help you, what you experience every time you sleep makes for an interesting case. If you don’t mind, I’d like to publish an article based on the scenario you’re experiencing in an academic journal.”

I shrug. “Knock yourself out.” I don’t care if he wants to use my nightmares for some reverse psychology shit. I’m glad I no longer have to answer any more questions about how it makes me feel. 

“I want that in writing,” he calls after me as I head out of his office. 

“Give me a call when you have a daft available,” I shout over my shoulder without turning back. 

When I get outside of the building, I check my watch. I still have a few hours until I have to get to work in the afternoon shift. Before that, I should grab a coffee and some lunch. A fifteen-minute walk takes me to Mission District. My favorite restaurant, where they pack a mean burrito, is there. As for the coffee, I guess I’ll have to grab one on the go. 

I pay for the food, and then I take a seat at one of the tables and enjoy every bite of my burrito. While I eat, I try not to think about tonight and that I should get some shut-eye. People around me are coming and going, but I don’t pay them any heed. I reflect on why I don’t have any flashbacks about last night’s nightmare. Today must be my lucky day. 

Once I finish the burrito, I go back to my car and head to work. When I enter the office and sit down at my desk, I realize I forgot to grab a coffee. Without caffeine, I’m so going to be in a surly mood all day. 

A lengthy list of tasks waits for me. Placing it next to my keyboard, I grab the phone and start making calls. The day passes by in a blur of calls. I explain to existing and potential customers about our products and services. Yeah, selling beauty products via phone isn’t the manliest job ever, but I make do, and it pays the bills. By the end of the day, I can’t wait to get home and relax.

Hours later, when I finally open the door to enter the apartment building, my neighbor, Mrs. Gallagher, is spying on me again. Sometimes I swear it’s all she does. Her door is ajar, and she’s standing behind it. Does she believe I don’t see her in the dim light? I can make out part of her lips and nose, and one eye watching me like a hawk. She’s hiding the rest of her wrinkled face in the darkness of her apartment. 

For a brief second, an icy-cold shiver runs down my spine when I look at her. My body shakes, struggling against the fear creeping up on me. I take a few slow breaths and study her. She reminds me of the crone saying the incantation in my nightmares, somehow bringing them to life even when I’m wide-awake.

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“Late of you to come home, ain’t it?” she caws. That’s how she usually talks. Every time she opens her mouth and words come out, I get the impression that she must have been a crow in another life.

For a few seconds, I want to tell her to keep her nose out of my business. I bite the tip of my tongue instead and keep my mouth shut. Ever since I moved into this apartment complex, she’s only been nice to me. She brought me cookies last Sunday, and in my book, that has to be worth something. 

I shrug. “Good evening to you too, Mrs. Gallagher,” I say, aware she did not utter any salutation. I swear I heard her snicker. “That’s my work schedule. I don’t have a choice to come and go as I please.”

A crazy laugh escapes her mouth. “You need another job. Something to give you all the liberties you need.”

She’s right to a certain degree. I could always go up the ladder. If the rumors are true, there’s an opening as a sales manager in our company. I could apply for that job. God knows I’ve worked my ass off, and I know the ins and outs of the sales process. Yet, I doubt it would make any significant difference to my working schedule. Most likely, I would have to put in extra hours of work. 

I mutter under my breath at the thought.

I’m only twenty-five. I like my freedom the way it is, thank you.

“Yeah…about that…I don’t think it’s going to happen very soon,” I reply to Mrs. Gallagher.

Another crazy laugh escapes her lips. “It might be sooner than you think, Arius.”

I’m a meaningless insect in her eyes, and when she says my name, I cringe. I can’t do anything about it, though, nor do I get the chance. Without uttering another word, she slams the door shut and leaves me dumbfounded. There goes that.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, fighting against the uneasiness assaulting me. Tired after work, I stop dilly-dallying and go home. The empty apartment welcomes me as I leave behind me everything that has happened today. 

I don’t know what to do now to relax. My stomach takes the decision away from me, rumbling its displeasure at being empty. I ransack the fridge until I find the leftover pizza from yesterday. I like having something to drink while I eat, so I grab a can of soda.

I take the food into the bedroom. I have a desk there where I keep my PC. I turn on the unit and wait for the monitor to come alive with the countless icons I have on the screen. While I have my late dinner, I access some videos to laugh my ass off at how stupid people can be.

Halfway through my dinner, my head starts buzzing with the beginning of a headache. I can either sleep it off or make my mind think of something else and ignore the pain. Sleeping is out of the question. I decide to play a few matches in one of my favorite online games. I choose my champion and stare at the loading screen until my other teammates select theirs. I have the worst day ever because the enemy team slays my allies, and I keep losing match after match. Can anyone say noob? I have to win at least one game, so I play another one. And another. And another. 

When I glance at the clock, it’s three AM. My eyelids are heavy, and my body is slumping forward as if embracing sleep. The sudden movement jerks me awake for a couple of seconds, and then I start all over again. I battle the fatigue and the drowsiness until I can no longer keep my head up. The keyboard looks like a cozy pillow, and I rest my head on it for a couple of minutes. I promise I won’t fall asleep. I can’t. 

I find myself again in the worst place where I could be. I’m in a room—I don’t have a clue where, but it’s not my bedroom—and it’s so dark I can’t see a thing. A moldy smell invades my nostrils, and I fight against gagging. Humidity permeates the air, making it difficult to breathe. This place reminds me of the basement in my grandmother’s house, an image I’d rather forget. I try to turn right and left without much success. My feet seem glued to the floor, and I struggle against invisible restraints. My heart is beating frantically in my chest while I fight back a cry of fear. The silence is deafening until someone talks, words I never wish to hear again. 

“Here you are, oh, the prophesied one. Not much of you, is it?” A woman mocks me with those words. I don’t see her yet, but her voice clues me in that she’s old. 

Who are you and what do you want from me? I try saying the words aloud—nothing comes out of my mouth. Why can’t I say anything?

She speaks again as if reading my mind. That’s impossible, isn’t it? “It’s not time for you to speak. Listen now.”

I don’t want to listen. I want to be back in the safety of my room with all that’s happening here forgotten. All this time, something nags at the back of my mind, something important I can’t seem to recall. I know what it is as soon as the old hag starts chanting. 

“Goddesses and Gods listen to my prayer.

Make this man a knight in the land of Ledmer.

Have him burn alive, have him burn in flames,

Until he has worshiped all your worthy names.

Let him know no rest, let him know no peace,

Until he has vanquished all your enemies.

Be my words true, be my words his bind 

Else peacefulness he will never find.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, tiny jolts of electricity start dancing across my skin. In the beginning, it’s as if I’m taking a warm shower. Soon, instead of tiny jolts, lightning breaks into thousands of pieces. It starts pinching and hurting from head to toe. The intensity increases more, becoming unbearable. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I light out the room like a Christmas tree. Flames join the lightning, adding a hot burning pressure through my veins. I’m burning, and I’m not at the same time. I can’t tell how long the torment lasts. Unable to withstand the pain anymore, I fall to my knees. 

With my mind wrapped up in agony, I catch a glimpse of the woman who cursed me. Before I can take a better look, a purple smoke invades my mouth and nostrils. I choke on the sour odor and cough. I can’t breathe, and the onslaught on my senses seems to last forever. The more I fight the sensations, the more havoc they wreak. My brain focuses on one thought alone.

I can’t breathe.

This is the end. This is where I die. 

I can’t breathe.

Darkness engulfs me, and I collapse on the floor in blissful oblivion.