Dreams

Sleep came swiftly to Michael, pulling him down deep into slumber, the transition so seamless, he wasn’t even aware he was dreaming. Whatever construct of his mind, it was dark in his dream, a sense of something foreboding hovering just on the periphery of his vision, stalking him, but when he turned, there was nothing there. He didn’t recognize the place where he was and there was a persistent hum, almost a buzzing sound, like many people whispering at the same time, though he couldn’t make sense of it. Again the sensation of something big, moving in the shadows, a low rumble like a growl. His instinct, impulse, was to run, flee. His feet felt leaden, his hands cold. Looking down, he saw the thumb on his left hand was entirely discolored black, though not putrefied.

Staring into the darkness, a sense of dread swept over him, leaving him feeling very unsettled. Though he couldn’t see anything in the fuliginous gloom, he felt something there at the fringe of perception and it was getting closer. Turning he started to run, legs slow and shambling. It was closer, breathing down the back of his neck, terror propelling him onward. Fearing whatever it might be, he didn’t risk looking back, willing his legs to function. Suddenly he was in full flight, feet racing. He felt triumphant, light as a feather and then he was falling, tumbling over in the air, plummeting deeper into an abyss with no bottom in sight.

In the darkness he screamed, extending his hands as if to break his fall. When finally he hit, he was instantly awakened with a jot, his heart was thundering in his chest, pounding like a war drum. It was dark. Taking a deep breathe, he chuckled to himself for being scared at the nightmare. Fugu, who knew? His stomach felt fine. He laughed again, sitting up, but struggling with material over his head, pinpricks of lights shining through the tight weave of fabric as he pushed at it. What the hell? It was like someone had dropped a gigantic parachute over him. Rolling over onto hands and knees he crawled through the material, emerging through an opening and into a room illuminated by waning sunlight spilling through the window on the far wall. He stood upright, jaw falling wide open as he looked around. He was in his own room, standing on his bed, now like abbreviated football field, in the neck hole of his three hundred dollar shirt. The room was exactly as he remembered it, only now the scale was huge, at least twenty times normal size. I must still be dreaming, he mused, looking across the broad expanse of his bed, clothes laid out in the same orientation as they had been when he had fallen asleep in them. Looking down, he was naked, but otherwise felt alright.

It didn’t make sense. “Fuck off,” he muttered out loud, chuckling and shaking his head as he began moving toward the near side of the bed, the one close to his bedside table.

As much as he wanted to believe he was still trapped in the dream world, the logic, rational part of his mind told him he was conscious and the information his senses were relaying back to his brain were real, despite the impossibility of it.

“No,” he denied, it couldn’t be, shaking his head in disbelief, clambering over the rumpled bed top.

Peering over the side of the bed, he pulled back, a little nervous around heights and slightly intimidated by the precipitous drop. “How am I supposed to get down?” he voiced.

The old woman’s voice sprang to mind, “Small man,” she had said. “Small man.”

The hot girl, what was her name? Lucie. Her voice, “she cursed you.”

“Are you serious right now?” he asked, spreading his arms wide. “Small man? Haha,” he mock laughed to the emptiness, turning slowly on the spot, “Very freaking funny!” he hollered at the top of his tiny lungs.

His heart sank and he wanted to cry. How? How could someone make another person small? It was not possible.

It had to be the blow fish, improperly prepared, toxins wreaking havoc on his senses, making him hallucinate. Thinking about it in those terms seemed to give him solace, piece of mind. Shrunk down by some old gypsy looking woman? He laughed out loud.

Sitting down he decided to wait a bit, thinking it was only a matter of time before his senses returned. Seconds dragged by into minutes, the room growing incrementally darker as the sun was setting. This is real. Panic gripped him. Jumping to his feet he hollered for help, screaming the word as loud as he could, over and over again till his throat was raw and his voice hoarse. Tears filled his eyes and he trembled.

What now? I need to get help. Maddie. Looking over the side of the bed again, shadows lengthening by the sinking sun, how do I get down there? Walking around the edge, there was one of his pillows on the floor, close to the side of his bed. Should I just jump, try to hit the pillow, like some test of courage from an episode of the TV program Face Your Fear? He chuckled nervously and shook his head, he would definitely take a look around at other options before jumping. A half hour later, room a little darker, he knew there were no other options if he wanted to get down.

Walking back to the side of the bed with the pillow on the floor underneath, he shook his head. “Fuck,” he muttered.

This is crazy, he told himself, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. Mentally counting, 1, 2, 3, he bolted, running toward the edge of the bed and leaping off into empty space. The sensation of falling through space reminiscent of the nightmare.

He hit the pillow with a small thump, the down feathers compressing slightly under his weight, but the impact still knocking the wind out of him.

Wheezing and desperately trying to suck oxygen back into his body, he gulped at the air, finally getting a lungful. He laughed aloud, raising his hands over his head and giving himself a congratulatory high five. Looking back up from where he had jumped now didn’t seem quite as high as it had from up there. Scooting his bare butt across the pillow, he slid down onto the carpeted floor, landing dexterously on his feet.

This was his room, but now, being so tiny changed his perspective, making it seem more sinister and foreboding. Shuddering, he knew the only possible source of help available to him was Madison, and her room was almost all the way at then opposite end of the house. She would help? Right? After the divorce, their relationship had been somewhat strained. He frowned. She would definitely laugh, but she would help, wouldn’t she?