“I have got to be dreaming.”

The teenager laughed harshly, rubbing one hand over his face, blinking, and taking another look at the scene in front of him. It was still the same. A young baby, only a few days old, wrinkled, red, and knotted up, stared back at him. Grinning a huge grin, and gazing at him with actual intellect shining within those deep blue eyes. And then, to perhaps prove why the boy had called it a dream, the baby actually spoke.

“Why do you think it is a dream?”

The teenager stared right back at the baby, not backing down from the child’s gaze for a moment. He appeared to be biting on his tongue, as if he was afraid of saying anything. He very well should be, who knows what crazy things would come out of his mouth. One had to wonder if he himself was crazy, or if it really was a dream. It certianly looked real.

Sitting down hard, the teenager once more dragged his hand across his face, as if to wipe away the vision in front of his eyes. It did little to help though, for the baby would still remain, still smiling, still waiting for the answer that was inevitibly going to come before the dream ended. If you were paying close enough attention, you would realize that the distrought teenager looked very, very familar. He was a grown-up version of the young boy that had been watched by the shadow man. Perhaps your eyes are now widening as you come to this point in your reasoning. Perhaps you are now looking a little closer. It has only been a few days, maybe even moments since you looked upon the last scene with this particular being in it. How did he grow up so fast?

Finally, he spoke, giving out a nervous chuckle beforehand.

“You are a baby. And you are talking to me. That is why it doesn’t make sense.”

 The baby craned his head to one side before giving a small, thoughtful nod, the smile still bright on his face.

 ”That makes sense.”

At that, the young teenager burst out laughing, his mind fraying just a tad, his eyes darting about wildly and rolling in their sockets. You will wonder why he is getting so distrought from a simple dream, if it is that, but then again, you aren’t watching it through his eyes. Imagine what you would do if you were dreaming, but didn’t know it. If the world you were dreaming of was so terribly real that you had to stop and wonder for just a moment…

 What was reality? Was your life the dream, and this the reality? Or perhaps…

 Perhaps you are Dreaming of a Reality?

Finally, the boy spoke, his voice laced with the wonderful sarcasm that young teenaged boys seemed to aquire right about the time they hit puberty.

“No it doesn’t! That is the POINT!”

The baby shrugged, once again moving his shoulders in the little rolling motion, and letting out another little musical laugh. The smile on his face was a strange sight to see, though not near as strange as having such a animated and talktive newborn actually existant. With the smile still on his face, the baby spoke again, although this time, he made the conversation take a turn for the worse.

 ”You have to die, you know.”

The teenager blinked.

Bam. Just like that. He was talking to a baby, and the kid had just told him that he had to die. He didn’t understand it. If the circumstances were confusing, the random words the baby had just spoken were even more confusing. So he did what he had been doing through the whole entire scene, and rubbed a hand over his face, let out a hoarse laugh, and prayed it would all be over.

“This is a dream. This is a dream. This. Is. A. Dream.”

This time, it was the baby’s turn to blink.

“Dreaming? This isn’t a dream. No, this next part… THIS is the dream…”

(To be continued)

Dreaming of a Reality

Perhaps it was all to begin here. It was almost sad, how a war for one’s very soul could begin in a child so young. The story that would traverse through agony and suffering would start it’s beginning chapter within the room of a mere eight year-old boy, who had no idea of the tribulation that he would have to endure for the next eight years of his life.

But no matter what the child knew, this was where it all began.

 It was night-time, and the boy was peacefully sleeping, wild blonde locks of hair drifting down over closed blue eyes, nice little Thomas the Tank pajamas keeping him clothed. The theme of his apparrel was also displayed at various other points in the room, the walls, bookcase, toychest, and even the bed containing some image of the much-esteemed “Thomas”. It was a very cheery scene, the darkness of the night pushed away by, you guessed it, a Thomas the Tank nightlight. The little bundle of brightness kept the feared dark away.

For he was but a child.

 The darkness still held some sort of fear for him.

 For looking closer upon this warm little scene, you would have feelings of love in your heart. This is how life should be, a young happy boy tucked nicely aweay iun his bed, sleeping peacefully in a world that portrayed his imagination and likely his dreams. It seemed like such a perfect scene. And it would be, if not for the knot of darkness in a corner, a knot of darkness that was strangely not touched by the light emitted from the nightlight.

 Indeed. The darkness held things that would lead to suffering, even on this night. 

 Perhaps you would pause for a moment, glancing from the nightlight to the shadow, and then back again, wondering how it was possible. For in all reality, and by all scientific explanation, it wasn’t. The nightlight was within reach of the shadow, and therefor should be able to repell it and disperse it, as it did all the others. But for whatever reason, that was not the case. If you stared upon the scene any longer, a cold feeling would suddenly settle in the pit of your stomach. Alas, even the boy on the bed would murmer a few words in his sleep, as if disturbed by something unseen.

The cold feeling would only grow. For from that corner, from that shadow, a humanoid figure would shape. Instantly, one would react with terror, thinking perhaps of a rapist or a predator, maybe a killer or a thief. But if for a moment, you would bypass this terror and the thoughts of what could happen to the child, you would notice something very strange. It was not as if something had risen from the shadowed area, it was as if the shadowed area had risen upon legs that it formed. For in all reality, if it was still truly such, the shadow was gone, replaced by this dark shade of a human shape. No features, no noise, simply a human shape made out of a single shade of black. Maybe this would only increase the terror in your soul, or perhaps this would calm you. Only a dream, you might say, or perhaps an illusion of the eyes.

 Yet the figure would walk.

 Yes, it would walk toward the young child, causing you to catch your breath, causing more images of terrible things to arise from your mind. You would utter a prayer under your breath, and close your eyes to block out the sight, only to reopen them to the horror that lay before you. By now, the figure was to the bed. He did nothing though, he simply stood there, the shape of his head declining down in what would appear to be a craned position, unseen eyes staring down at the boy. No, he didn’t have eyes, but somehow, you knew. He was there, and he was watching. 

 It would continue for seconds, minutes, hours. You wouldn’t be able to tell the time, yet you would know that it was long. Daybreak would soon be to approach you would think, because light always followed the night. Then this stalker would vanish, or the light would reveal him for who he really was.

Then suddenly, the boy snapped awake. It would be signalled first by a loud, strangled gasp, and then the prone figure of the young child shooting up to a sitting position, his eyes wild, darting. It was a nightmare that had taken him in his sleep, a dream that had turned sour and scared him, and called him from his slumber. Yes, he could feel the fear, even as it slowly was vanquished by the comfort of his Thomas light. Yet it would be strange, for the shadowed figure still stood there, and he still stared down at the boy, yet he was not seen by the boy. Perhaps now you are shaking your head, wondering how it could be so. Maybe you yourself were having a nightmare, or even a dream?

Now you would simply catch your breath, waiting for the outcome as the figure moved. Kneeling down in front of the boy to bring the two at eye level, the shadow would lift what seemed to be a hand, and slowly stroke the cheek of the boy, caressing him lovingly. The boy stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, merely breathing hard and rough at the still existant fear of his former chaotic sleep. It would remain this way until, suprisingly, eeriely, the shadow man spoke. It was an oily voice, a sly voice, yet a voice nonetheless. A voice that caused the fear to rise within you once more.

“I am known as Fear.”

 Suddenly, the child would let out a scream, the horrors of his previous nightmare flooding back into his soul, the forbidden images suddenly leaping from his memory and assulting him mercilessly. He would cry for mommy and daddy, his refuge, and they would come running. You would be able to watch with relief now, for the story continued on in a more logical fashion. The boy was reassured, the fears put to death, and the heart set to slumber. Yet the shadow figure would be gone before the parents arrived, although his words would still linger.

 I am known as Fear.  

Author Note: For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. 2 Timothy, 1:7.