Dreams can be terrifying things.  Jason Jacobi was suffering one of many nightmares.  It was a common occurrence, but that didn’t make them any less real.  His reality didn’t require imagination for the demons to creep in.  Of course, that’s when he was actually able to sleep, which though unavoidable, came in spurts, fractured as if splintered glass . . . and no less sharp.  This particular terrifying vision was a recurring one grounded in memory.

                His life worsened and periods of calm were short lived.  Someone new always seeped through the cracks, wanting to suck up his youth like the last dregs of ale.  As expected, Jason’s father countered each and every attack.  Thankfully, he never kept score, but there was a silent debt owed.  In payment, Jason succumbed to his father’s will.  Anything to the contrary served as nothing more than a delay.  At a mere fifteen he knew details about torture most couldn’t even fathom.  He knew because he’d done them . . . repeatedly.  His father never failed to tell him, “Practice makes perfect.”  It was a stupid idiom, ripped straight from the pages of wartime dogma . . . or before.  Who could know?  That was nearly four centuries ago, back when humans still drew breath.

                Jason didn’t have time for ancient history, or so his weary eyes told him.  He and his father were on the run.  His nights were restless and weariness prevailed.  Pleasant dreams were elusive, but had been known to occur.  In the fleeting hope of catching one, he turned over and fell back to sleep blissfully and unusually quickly.  Unfortunately, dreams were predicated on what one knew.  Jason knew very few good things.

                Still, the effort had him conjuring fleeting images of his long dead mother.  Few memories remained and even fewer anyone would brand as happy.  His unconscious mind seemed his nemesis and chose to intertwine his images of torture with that of his mother.  Jason couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother torture or be tortured, but he knew she had . . . to herself.  That was for his sister’s birth; a secondary, but equally unspoken shame.  His father told him the tale at a mere thirteen years of age, because in his world “teen” ushered in adulthood.

                As blunt as his father’s retelling of events could sometimes be, this was a tragedy devoid of details, for the sheer mind numbing pain he felt at her memory.  Yet, Jason’s own birth could’ve been considered even worse, for it marked the origin of shame.  His unconscious mind struggled to recreate events based on what he now knew of the tragic nature of birth.  Though, wreaking havoc within his mother’s womb, Jason hadn’t been present when prepping the delivery room.  As a dream within a dream, he hovered above observing, as if the angel of death patiently waiting to collect his due.

<><><><>

                “Has the delivery room been prepped?” a nameless doctor demanded, weary from the ordeals he’d already suffered.  Not having the time to clean up between emergencies, his whitish garment had faded a pale yellow and seemed a haphazard work of art, mixing blood splatter both new and old.  He fit in well with the décor.  A valiant effort was always made to scrub away the blood, both sprayed and poured from fresh wounds.  Years old, encrusted, brownish stains were clearly evident in the crevices between tiles and the legs of stainless steel trays moved so rarely they appeared to dent the floor.  Many other areas were swathed in shadow, but unceremoniously revealed memories of past tragedies upon the tilt of the overhead lamp.  As if a fresh coat of paint, many of these older stains were layered and some as new as an hour prior.

                “I don’t see the priest.”  After a glancing pause.  “or the coroner.  Are you new?  We don’t have time for this.”

                The nurse was indeed new and fared little better in the realm of sanity, not just from overwork, but felt as if a truckload of information had just been injected into both arms, threatening to infest her heart, which wanted so desperately to give a shit, when so many no longer bothered.  Coworkers she barely knew figured she’d quickly learn to deaden her heartstrings or bail, as so many before her had, which was why she’d been thrust into this situation.  Newbies don’t do births.  Newbies can’t handle births.  The doctor knew this, but there wasn’t anything for it . . . and they were out of time.

                The nurse knew enough to know that both should be present, but not where they were.  A whole minute ticked by as if a year, while she seemed to lose herself in the hospital issue tablet to find an answer, but to no avail.  “I . . . I just arrived.  I don’t know.  Give me a sec.”

                Belligerently, purposely or stress related, the doctor quickly stated, “That’s time we don’t have.  You shouldn’t be here if you can’t do your job.  The patient has just been released from ER and is headed our way as we speak.  We need the priest for last rites and the coroner to take the mother away after she passes.  Did you somehow not know this?”

                “No . . . I mean, yes, of course, doctor.  I just found it.  The priest’s on his way up now.  He was already in the building.  No idea why he’s running late, but he’s headed our way now.”

                In a world of chaos a bit of calm settled in at the luck.  “Better than nothing.  We need the priest first anyway.  What of the coroner?”

                “I don’t know, doctor.  Apparently, he hasn’t been here all day.  People are out looking for him now.  And our backup has been notified.”

                In the doctor’s mind, a bit of faith was renewed, not in their backup coroner, but that the nurse, who never should’ve been here in the first place, might just be competent enough to do her job.  “Find him.  The backup coroner is a backup for a reason.  He’s new to his field as well.  I’m sure you can relate, but relate later.  I see you’ve set the stage well enough.”

                “I’ve trained for similar situations.”  Setup was a clinical simplicity and she was a quick study.  She was indeed competent, but that’s not why everyone thought she’d fail.  Her greatest flaw was that she had a heart.  This was no place for her.  Despite the name, the birthing suite was haunted by death.  While it was true most newborns survived, the mothers rarely did.

                “Training can’t replace experience.  Are you ready for this?  I need to know?”  The question was rhetorical.  It didn’t matter if she was or wasn’t, because she was all he had.

                “I . . . I think so, doctor.”  She was riddled with obvious nervousness, wondering why she ever thought to expand her technical and computer expertise to the medical field.

                The doctor stared directly at her now and in no uncertain terms said, “No one who ‘thinks’ they’re ready ever are.  The patient, this pregnant woman . . . she is going to die.  Here, on this table.  And when she does it will be because she valiantly performed her motherly duty to maim herself.  Something I hope you have the courage to do if you ever become pregnant.”

                The nurse knew the details, but was totally taken off guard by the morbidity of the personal comment.  “I . . . I understand, doctor.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

                “No.  You really don’t.  We’re you advanced?”  It was an honest question.  He needed to know if he could truly count on her.

                “Yes, doctor.  Of course, I was.”  In truth, she didn’t know anyone who hadn’t been.

                “And did your mother survive?”  He hated to be so blunt, but time was short.

                After an understandable pause.  “No.  She died on the table.”

                In a brief, but fleeting moment of sympathy, he put his hand on her shoulder.  “You should be proud.”

                Her head hung low, unable to handle eye to eye contact.  “I am, doctor.  She broke most of her fingers to make me what I am.  Her heart gave out.”

                “I sympathize, but it’s not the same as playing a part.  You were an innocent and had no say.  You do now.  And you absolutely must make the right call.  Do not intervene.  Allow this woman the same honor your mother had.  You were advanced, as all babies should be.  In an instant you grew to a toddler.  She added years to your life, but in reality, it’s only because of her sacrifice you even exist.  Otherwise, you’d have been murdered long ago.  Don’t steal that chance from this newborn.  We have a duty to uphold.”

                She was emboldened by his speech.  “I will do my duty, doctor.  You can count on me.”

                “It won’t be an easy thing to watch.” He chided.

                “I understand, doctor.”

                The doctor gave a brief smile, but thought to himself, “No.  You don’t.  But you will.”

<><><><>

                Jason fought to wake from this nightmare, but dreams seem to have a mind of their own, as if they’re a living breathing thing feeding on pain.  It hollowed him out, licking his insides clean, no less than the last drops of juice from a bowl.  Even so, he refused to return to the scene of the crime his birth had become.  It didn’t matter. 

                Jason knew the horrors that came next.  His father spelled it out.  That nurse fucked up.  She’d cut the umbilical cord too soon.  That fleshy tube provided more than nourishment.  It served as the conduit between pain and growth.  Severing it lost his mother’s only chance to advance him.  Maiming herself after that would’ve been utterly pointless.  For it all, the shame descended like a shroud.  Death would’ve been better.  As far as he knew that’s what the kind, caring nurse received instead of a pension.  He was conflicted on the matter.  Her monumental mistake gave him the only time he’d ever have with his mother, most of which he could barely remember.  Even so, it wasn’t all cuddles and kisses, or so his father told him.  She’d fallen into a deep depression.  The shame crippled her in a way no mere injury ever could.

                His father had told him how dedicated she was to perform her duty.  She wholeheartedly believed in a mother’s right to maim herself for the betterment of her child.  She knew what most didn’t.  That maiming wasn’t necessarily a death sentence.  It was indeed rare to survive it, but definitely not impossible.  She’d fully intended to have her cake and eat it too.  It just hadn’t work out that way.

                Jason hadn’t chosen that hellish dream.  He just wanted to remember his mother, since she was the brightest part of his short life.  Of course, she wasn’t really.  Not with the all-encompassing shame, but his memories of her were so microscopic, that he’d conjured happier ones in their place.  Though this fallacy was heartwarming, Jason truly did believe his mother was a vibrant soul.  After all, his father told him she had a way about her; that the world could fall prey to death and her smile would beam true, regardless.  It couldn’t be anything but a lie.  Not in this world that had already been dipped in the flames of hellish war once.  Somehow the world survived, so he saw no reason not to embrace the image his father painted so eloquently.  Especially since his only other flair for the artistic lay in how best to carve people up.  In stealing this view of his mother, Jason felt as if his unconscious mind not only betrayed him once again, but purposely warped the few good things he cherished into wicked ones.  Could tough love be self-taught?  If so, what lesson was he supposed to learn?

<><><><>

                As if merciful, the nightmare followed suit with Jason’s wishes to be rid of such crippling thoughts.  It was instead playing a game; switching channels on the T.V. for something far juicier that could hold its morbid interests.  It didn’t disappoint, but something was different and horribly so.  In a moment’s time, Jason wished to return to the origin of his shame.

                As the deceitfully calm breeze blew, he knew he’d returned to yet another horror.  The light was back.  He actually believed he might’ve escaped it with the fleeting notion that it was merely a dream.  It was so much more.  He remained asleep, but what lay before him had been visited before in what he now knew was a foresight . . . of his own death.  The cursed thing tearing through him, gutted everything in between.

                Jason was fifteen, but to cater to his nightmares, he might’ve been two days old.  One day for birth and another for death.  This was the way of things for humatrans.  The genetic merging of humans with the seemingly omnipotent breed of alien dubbed Atra, left traces of itself behind.  He supposed they needed to.  They went extinct right along with humanity.  Humatrans were all that remained.

                First came the war, four centuries ago.  It ended in a stalemate, but left Earth decimated.  Countless cities were razed to the ground with only a fraction of humanity able to claim they’d witnessed the end of everything.  Yet it wasn’t even close.  More horrors were yet to come.  The merging was slow and methodical.  From the few Atra that actually perished a process of terraforming began.  This led to the corpses forming into seeds, which released gases that were either deadly to humans, or forever changed them.  The Global Rupture ended the whole process but that took the greater part of a century to play out.

                In the end, humatrans inherited a few of their abilities, if not their grotesque appearance.  These ranged from a sixth sense that warned of vague, but impending danger to a sickly sweet odor they emanated when terrified.  Beyond this were a few who could do even more.  These could read minds, predict future events and even overtake others, swaying them to do their bidding.

                Apparently, Jason was one of them, though such hallowed, but somehow cursed abilities had only just been unlocked within his tender flesh.  They were wreaking havoc to his mind, no less than birthing pangs or the aftershocks of a tremor.  He could hear all thoughts within range . . . as if screamed simultaneously, but the worst of it was this light.

                In all actuality the light hadn’t scared him.  In fact, he was drawn to it, past all common sense.  Even though he simply must be seeing the future, part of it was metaphorical and somehow still within a dream state.  It had to be.  He’d already been irresistibly pulled into an electric fence and fucking dragged through it!  He could feel his skin sizzling!  He could fucking smell it!  Even after the chain link fence had cubed his corpse!

                Still, he continued on in what must be spirit form, because no part of him could say no to that accursed fence!  Now he was back!  He floated past all the endless rows of corn to an open field with the light shining at the peak of a distant hill as if it were the most glorious sunrise.  It wasn’t.  It was something utterly unnatural . . . alien.  He couldn’t tell what would become of what remained of him, but nothing good came to mind.  Despite it all, he found himself unmistakably and irredeemably . . . curious.

                Perhaps the ancients awaited him . . . like his father, Scott.  That was the root of it all.  That’s what made a humatran what they were.  Murder . . . equaled . . . youth.  His father flawlessly hid his true age, but another ancient, Wferium, revealed the truth of the matter.  Both were three centuries old!  They achieved such a feat through a process called youthing, where a body would regress to a younger state . . . losing the exact age of the one they killed.  In such a way, one could potentially live forever, providing their bloodthirst never waned.

                As Jason involuntarily travelled, he wondered how he ended up in the snowy middle of nowhere and what fresh new horrors would await him once he finally re-awoke.  Nothing good was in store for him, here as a phantasm, in his haunting dreams or the real world, where everyone seemed to want to drink his youth.