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wightknight) wrote2015-09-12 05:57 pm
wightknight) wrote2015-09-12 05:57 pm
Somnambulism
He dreamt of impossible things.
He was in a white room filled with marble statues, familiar, forgotten figures, their whispers swelling like the tide on the seashore. He felt their stares linger upon him and their eyes piercing through him in accusation. They saw what he could not.
He was a child of five, lying on crumbling soil and gazing at the white sun as it rose above the horizon for the final time. It shone dimly, unsteadily. In a few moments, it would crumble into nothingness, and the world would be consumed by frost and darkness.
He hovered above a primordial sea and watched as the leviathan rose from its depths, the water cascading from its back like a thousand waterfalls surging forth in unison. On the shores of the ocean, the behemoth awaited, its still form concealing the highest mountain peaks from view.
It was his gift. His and his alone. He dreamt of impossible things, worlds and dimensions in parallel to his own, past, present, and future intermingling as one. It had been his for as long as he could remember, and for a time in his childhood, he had eschewed the waking world in favor of the dreamscapes through which he freely wandered. He spoke of it to no one. Not his parents, not his closest friends, not his beloved whose hand he had taken in marriage. He watched for signs in his young children, for laughter and awe to linger upon their faces while they slept... but there was nothing to see.
One night, he dreamt he was a wizened, decrepit old man, too weak to rise from his bed, too fatigued to even entertain the thought of doing so. He felt his shallow breaths pooling in his lungs and his heart beating tremulously, each contraction a great exertion of effort. He raised a trembling hand and gazed through beclouded eyes at the flesh hanging from his thin frame, dotted with spots of age. He thought, suddenly, that he was dying... or perhaps, as close to death as his dreams would allow.
"Hi."
He turned his head. Beside the bed, cross-legged on the floor, there sat a girl. Her hair was long and dark and gleamed like lacquer; her limpid eyes examined him with curiosity, a slight tilt to her head.
"Are you OK?"
He took a slow breath and tried to respond - found he could not form the breath for words. A smile rising to his lips despite himself, he shook his head from side to side. No. He did not think he was OK.
"I'm sorry."
She rose to her feet, smoothing out her print dress adorned with lilacs. He recognized them only because of his own daughter's fascination with lilacs. Taking a step forward, she reached for his hand, her tiny fingers wrapping around his own.
"My name is Rebekah. But I don't like it very much. Everyone calls me Becky." Gently, she pushed the blankets aside to make space, carefully perching herself on the edge of the bed frame so as not to disturb him. He hardly noticed the weight. "What's your name?"
Still smiling, he mouthed something wordlessly.
"I'm going to call you Tom." His name was Nathaniel. "You look like a Tom. Mr. Tom." She nodded to herself solemnly. "This is Mr. Whiskers." In her other hand, she carried a purple felt kitten, its eyes large and wide, its mouth sewn in a perpetually friendly smile. "Mom gave him to me. She said he'd help me sleep better at night."
She paused for a moment before continuing brightly.
"Would you like to have him, Mr. Tom? You look tired. I bet Mr. Whiskers can help."
His rasping laughter shuddered through his entire body, and he felt a spasm of pain run up his side. No. He shook his head. That was alright. He didn't need Mr. Whiskers. For a few moments, she considered his answer before deeming it unsatisfactory. She leaned forward and placed the kitten lightly on his chest.
"You can have him for a little while. I'll take him back the next time we meet."
She squeezed his hand lightly and slipped off the bed.
"I'll see you, Mr. Tom."
She turned and walked away, pausing just once to give him a cheerful wave. He returned the gesture slowly, allowing his hand to drop when she had vanished from sight. He frowned. What a curious dream... She was right, though. He was tired. So tired that he could hardly bring himself to wonder what it might mean. He closed his eyes and settled Mr. Whiskers comfortably in the crook of his arm as his breathing slowed.
He woke the next morning with a faint smile lingering on his lips.
From that night on, the dream recurred every few weeks. When he wasn't battling krakens in the polar ice caps, when he wasn't soaring through the mountains on silver wings, he laid in bed as an invalid, quietly and patiently listening to the stories of a little girl. She had just started fourth grade. She was lonely; she had moved because her father had gotten a new job. Her best friend in the whole world was Kate M., and they had met when they had discovered their mutual love for the swings at recess. Sometimes, she jumped out before the swings even stopped. She could always jump farther than Kate M, but she didn't know who would swing with her now that she was gone.
Once, when she had hopped off the bed and turned to depart, she bade him a glib farewell as she rushed away.
"Bye, Mr. Tom. I love you!"
His own children were in the peak of adolescence, and he had not heard those words from a child's mouth for a very long time. He had missed them more than he knew.
Then one night soon after, he did not dream he was an old man.
He was an old man.
It had come unexpectedly. Theoretically, in years alone, he had not yet lived his allotted portion. But reality gave no allowance for theory, and days into his retirement, he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He lost weight. His skin hung on a thin frame. He was bedridden, he found breathing to be an impossible effort, and he needed a nurse whenever he wished to relieve himself. His wife did not leave his side. His children, young adults now, visited as often as they could, though he urged them to live for their own futures.
His dreams were quiet and contemplative affairs now, no longer filled with daring adventures and explorations in bizarre and unknown worlds. He walked along an endless beach of white sand, watching the glass ocean form crystalline shapes that shattered in mid-air. He heard music plucked from an instrument that did not yet exist and probably never would, summoning impossibly perfect tones and chords. He watched seven suns set consecutively, one after another, bathing the world in kaleidoscope shades of color and light.
When it came again, he had not had the dream for the better part of a year. He had almost forgotten about it entirely.
"Hi, Mr. Tom."
Despite the passage of time, she never seemed to age. Her rosy features were as childish and innocent as they had been over twenty years earlier. She clambered onto his bed, taking his hand lightly in her own with an expression of concern.
"You don't look so good."
He did not think he had ever looked very good during these dreams. He wondered how he must look now if she had saw fit to remark as such.
"Would you like to hold Mr. Whiskers?"
This time, he smiled faintly and allowed a nod. She placed the kitten in his hand and guided it towards his chest. Through his thin clothing, he could feel his own heartbeat, still slow but steady despite his illness and his age.
"...Mr. Tom? Can I tell you something?"
She was worried. Without waiting for a response, she continued.
"I have these really strange dreams, Mr. Tom. In strange places and with strange monsters. ...Sometimes, I get really scared." Her admittance was hesitant. "That's why Mom got me Mr. Whiskers. But..." A bright smile came to her face. "Then I started dreaming about you. And it felt like you had been there all the time. I didn't mind going to sleep so much anymore. It's still bad sometimes, but I know if I'm with you, it'll be alright."
Slowly, she lowered her head down against his chest, settling it lightly beside Mr. Whiskers.
"I like you best. So... don't go yet, OK?"
His eyes brimmed with tears. One hand reached to brush the girl's hair away from her face, and he silently mouthed a response.
I like you best, too.
This time, she didn't leave him. They remained in that position until they both fell asleep, their hands settled on top of Mr. Whiskers.
The next morning, his wife awoke by his bedside to find him calm and still, his features peaceful, one hand pressed against his heart. His doctors reassured her that he had passed away quietly and painlessly in his sleep. It was the best way to go.
At his funeral, the bereaved spoke of his love and dedication for his family, his generous spirit, and his seemingly limitless imagination and zest for discovering new things. He left behind a grieving wife, two children, and one grandchild, born only three months before his death. When the grief had abated somewhat, his wife set his picture beside her bed and conversed with it briefly every morning until the occasion of her own death nine years later.
It was the same picture a little girl remarked upon thoughtfully when her parents came to pack up the old family home.
"Mom, who's that?"
They set about explaining, and she responded with a theatrical gasp of surprise and an accusing tone.
"You never showed me a picture of him old before!"
She couldn't explain why it was important. That night, she excitedly hugged her purple felt kitten and urged her mother to hurry up and turn off the lights. She tossed and turned for nearly an hour in her agitation.
When she finally managed to fall asleep, she ran straight for the figure in the bed. ...No. By the bed. He stood upright for the first time, calmly and patiently as if waiting for her. There was a twinkle in his eyes as she leapt into his arms.
"Grandpa!"
He was in a white room filled with marble statues, familiar, forgotten figures, their whispers swelling like the tide on the seashore. He felt their stares linger upon him and their eyes piercing through him in accusation. They saw what he could not.
He was a child of five, lying on crumbling soil and gazing at the white sun as it rose above the horizon for the final time. It shone dimly, unsteadily. In a few moments, it would crumble into nothingness, and the world would be consumed by frost and darkness.
He hovered above a primordial sea and watched as the leviathan rose from its depths, the water cascading from its back like a thousand waterfalls surging forth in unison. On the shores of the ocean, the behemoth awaited, its still form concealing the highest mountain peaks from view.
It was his gift. His and his alone. He dreamt of impossible things, worlds and dimensions in parallel to his own, past, present, and future intermingling as one. It had been his for as long as he could remember, and for a time in his childhood, he had eschewed the waking world in favor of the dreamscapes through which he freely wandered. He spoke of it to no one. Not his parents, not his closest friends, not his beloved whose hand he had taken in marriage. He watched for signs in his young children, for laughter and awe to linger upon their faces while they slept... but there was nothing to see.
One night, he dreamt he was a wizened, decrepit old man, too weak to rise from his bed, too fatigued to even entertain the thought of doing so. He felt his shallow breaths pooling in his lungs and his heart beating tremulously, each contraction a great exertion of effort. He raised a trembling hand and gazed through beclouded eyes at the flesh hanging from his thin frame, dotted with spots of age. He thought, suddenly, that he was dying... or perhaps, as close to death as his dreams would allow.
"Hi."
He turned his head. Beside the bed, cross-legged on the floor, there sat a girl. Her hair was long and dark and gleamed like lacquer; her limpid eyes examined him with curiosity, a slight tilt to her head.
"Are you OK?"
He took a slow breath and tried to respond - found he could not form the breath for words. A smile rising to his lips despite himself, he shook his head from side to side. No. He did not think he was OK.
"I'm sorry."
She rose to her feet, smoothing out her print dress adorned with lilacs. He recognized them only because of his own daughter's fascination with lilacs. Taking a step forward, she reached for his hand, her tiny fingers wrapping around his own.
"My name is Rebekah. But I don't like it very much. Everyone calls me Becky." Gently, she pushed the blankets aside to make space, carefully perching herself on the edge of the bed frame so as not to disturb him. He hardly noticed the weight. "What's your name?"
Still smiling, he mouthed something wordlessly.
"I'm going to call you Tom." His name was Nathaniel. "You look like a Tom. Mr. Tom." She nodded to herself solemnly. "This is Mr. Whiskers." In her other hand, she carried a purple felt kitten, its eyes large and wide, its mouth sewn in a perpetually friendly smile. "Mom gave him to me. She said he'd help me sleep better at night."
She paused for a moment before continuing brightly.
"Would you like to have him, Mr. Tom? You look tired. I bet Mr. Whiskers can help."
His rasping laughter shuddered through his entire body, and he felt a spasm of pain run up his side. No. He shook his head. That was alright. He didn't need Mr. Whiskers. For a few moments, she considered his answer before deeming it unsatisfactory. She leaned forward and placed the kitten lightly on his chest.
"You can have him for a little while. I'll take him back the next time we meet."
She squeezed his hand lightly and slipped off the bed.
"I'll see you, Mr. Tom."
She turned and walked away, pausing just once to give him a cheerful wave. He returned the gesture slowly, allowing his hand to drop when she had vanished from sight. He frowned. What a curious dream... She was right, though. He was tired. So tired that he could hardly bring himself to wonder what it might mean. He closed his eyes and settled Mr. Whiskers comfortably in the crook of his arm as his breathing slowed.
He woke the next morning with a faint smile lingering on his lips.
From that night on, the dream recurred every few weeks. When he wasn't battling krakens in the polar ice caps, when he wasn't soaring through the mountains on silver wings, he laid in bed as an invalid, quietly and patiently listening to the stories of a little girl. She had just started fourth grade. She was lonely; she had moved because her father had gotten a new job. Her best friend in the whole world was Kate M., and they had met when they had discovered their mutual love for the swings at recess. Sometimes, she jumped out before the swings even stopped. She could always jump farther than Kate M, but she didn't know who would swing with her now that she was gone.
Once, when she had hopped off the bed and turned to depart, she bade him a glib farewell as she rushed away.
"Bye, Mr. Tom. I love you!"
His own children were in the peak of adolescence, and he had not heard those words from a child's mouth for a very long time. He had missed them more than he knew.
Then one night soon after, he did not dream he was an old man.
He was an old man.
It had come unexpectedly. Theoretically, in years alone, he had not yet lived his allotted portion. But reality gave no allowance for theory, and days into his retirement, he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He lost weight. His skin hung on a thin frame. He was bedridden, he found breathing to be an impossible effort, and he needed a nurse whenever he wished to relieve himself. His wife did not leave his side. His children, young adults now, visited as often as they could, though he urged them to live for their own futures.
His dreams were quiet and contemplative affairs now, no longer filled with daring adventures and explorations in bizarre and unknown worlds. He walked along an endless beach of white sand, watching the glass ocean form crystalline shapes that shattered in mid-air. He heard music plucked from an instrument that did not yet exist and probably never would, summoning impossibly perfect tones and chords. He watched seven suns set consecutively, one after another, bathing the world in kaleidoscope shades of color and light.
When it came again, he had not had the dream for the better part of a year. He had almost forgotten about it entirely.
"Hi, Mr. Tom."
Despite the passage of time, she never seemed to age. Her rosy features were as childish and innocent as they had been over twenty years earlier. She clambered onto his bed, taking his hand lightly in her own with an expression of concern.
"You don't look so good."
He did not think he had ever looked very good during these dreams. He wondered how he must look now if she had saw fit to remark as such.
"Would you like to hold Mr. Whiskers?"
This time, he smiled faintly and allowed a nod. She placed the kitten in his hand and guided it towards his chest. Through his thin clothing, he could feel his own heartbeat, still slow but steady despite his illness and his age.
"...Mr. Tom? Can I tell you something?"
She was worried. Without waiting for a response, she continued.
"I have these really strange dreams, Mr. Tom. In strange places and with strange monsters. ...Sometimes, I get really scared." Her admittance was hesitant. "That's why Mom got me Mr. Whiskers. But..." A bright smile came to her face. "Then I started dreaming about you. And it felt like you had been there all the time. I didn't mind going to sleep so much anymore. It's still bad sometimes, but I know if I'm with you, it'll be alright."
Slowly, she lowered her head down against his chest, settling it lightly beside Mr. Whiskers.
"I like you best. So... don't go yet, OK?"
His eyes brimmed with tears. One hand reached to brush the girl's hair away from her face, and he silently mouthed a response.
I like you best, too.
This time, she didn't leave him. They remained in that position until they both fell asleep, their hands settled on top of Mr. Whiskers.
The next morning, his wife awoke by his bedside to find him calm and still, his features peaceful, one hand pressed against his heart. His doctors reassured her that he had passed away quietly and painlessly in his sleep. It was the best way to go.
At his funeral, the bereaved spoke of his love and dedication for his family, his generous spirit, and his seemingly limitless imagination and zest for discovering new things. He left behind a grieving wife, two children, and one grandchild, born only three months before his death. When the grief had abated somewhat, his wife set his picture beside her bed and conversed with it briefly every morning until the occasion of her own death nine years later.
It was the same picture a little girl remarked upon thoughtfully when her parents came to pack up the old family home.
"Mom, who's that?"
They set about explaining, and she responded with a theatrical gasp of surprise and an accusing tone.
"You never showed me a picture of him old before!"
She couldn't explain why it was important. That night, she excitedly hugged her purple felt kitten and urged her mother to hurry up and turn off the lights. She tossed and turned for nearly an hour in her agitation.
When she finally managed to fall asleep, she ran straight for the figure in the bed. ...No. By the bed. He stood upright for the first time, calmly and patiently as if waiting for her. There was a twinkle in his eyes as she leapt into his arms.
"Grandpa!"