A Casebook for Dreaming
-Study One: Stream of Unconsciousness-
The dream is always different.
The dream is always the same.
I dream a lot now.
I'm falling. It's a little like drowning but not really. You know that sleepy amnesia feeling you get when you're almost gone or almost awake? I can't remember me, but that's okay. I'm not alert enough for it to matter. It's no big deal; I'll just float a while.
But really. My name used to be important. I used to be…
…somebody.
It's ok. I'm still me. Aren't I?
You come to visit me sometimes. I remember you. We sat on a tower once, somewhere. You laughed when you asked me what I wanted and I said ice cream, like that was the last thing you expected me to say. I always seemed to be doing the last thing you expected though, didn't I? Maybe that's why we got along so well.
Do I…know you?
I want you to hold my hand because it's dark here and I can't remember my name. I want to climb into your bed like I used to do and know the secret: that it's okay to feel scared or angry or frustrated or upset, because I do. Our secret. I remember you were really warm, all the time. So warm you made me sweat when I was close to you, that thin skin-thick sheet of sweat that comes just before uncomfortable. We never needed blankets. They made me feel like I was suffocating.
I can't feel you anymore. It's hard to tell where one dream ends and another begins.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
I'm angry and hurt because you lied, you lied to me and I can't believe it, why did you do that? I thought I could trust you with anything.
"Are you being petulant just to piss me off, or are you actually wanting to get your ass beat?"
"Move out of my way."
You really were scared of me. I knew it somewhere deep down, even though you tried your best to hide it behind sea green and gold. Your eyes were a little like an ocean I could only barely remember seeing somehow, somewhere, and right then you made me so angry for it. Stop reminding me stop stop stop I hate being reminded I'll run away if you don't stop.
"Don't go."
It's raining, I think. I feel the hard sting of it even through the thickness of my coat. It's not warm, but cold. I really hate rain when it's so cold it seeps through everything, straight to your heart.
Wherever that is.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. I hear it in my ears and it sounds like rain but slower.
"Don't go."
I know I went but now I stay. Or maybe it's my voice calling you. Images are swirls sometimes when you dream. You remember that feeling? It tasted like rain and you and upside-down. I won't go this time, I won't leave. We'll stay here always.
I miss you so much; it makes me want to die forever.
Have you ever been to the beach? Once upon a time, my mom used to say, every grain of sand was a world and every world was a grain of sand. All the peoples lived together and there was no sadness and the star that ruled us was full of great and beautiful people. Sometimes I am one of them, and I'm coming to meet the prince of the world. Or maybe I am the prince and the beautiful person is coming to meet me. It's hard to remember my name, but I'm sure I'm almost there.
No. I won't go to sleep, I won't! I hate this place, I hate dreaming, I want out! Please god, anyone, please let me out, I'm drowning, I'm drowning and trapped and I'm not me, I'm–
Sora.
-He woke up and it was very much like choking on his own scream, because he was. Outside the stars were bright, but even they couldn't illuminate the shadows he was sure he felt inside his own heart.-
-Study Two: Premonition/Postcognition-
Fwiip.
The sound of cards being shuffled. He hears it even in the dreams. In fact, most of the time that's how the dreams begin: fwiiip. Long and measured before each card falls into perfect place in-between the others. The man bends them forward, and then back, and then flips them in one long stream – fwiiip – and the deck is whole again. A tap to set straight and one more shuffle ends the show. Twice total. Never three. Not if he was about to deal.
"Do you understand the rules?" the Gambler asks, like a lawyer would ask if a prisoner understood their right to silence. He himself nods (for he is himself now, though sometimes he is the Gambler), even though he doesn't understand, he never understands, but he tells himself if he watches close enough, he'll catch the meaning.
But the Gambler always plays too fast.
Flip, flip, flip. The cards are dealt, three in a row. He looks at them and tries to make sense of the spread. Five of Hearts. Three of Hearts. Nine of Diamonds.
"Are you happy as you are?" the Gambler asks, looking over the cards like a monarch would oversee his people. He was quiet at times like these: calculating, shrewd. It would be hard to bluff this man.
He shrugs, evasive: he feels his shoulders rise and fall; he watches the expression on his face to see if it lies. This is where he has to choose: will he keep his current hand, or tap the table for more cards? He hits the nine, and the three. The Gambler shrugs too (he's a perfect mimic), and shoves away both.
Flip. Flip. Ace of Hearts.
"I'm happy now," he finally says, even though it's something of a lie. Flip. Three of Diamonds. Flip. Two of Hearts. Flip. Four of Clubs. He counts each point of each card without seeing them at all. He sees them every day.
"I'm sure you are," the Gambler says, and his smile is not kind. Flip. Flip. He watches the cards fly by, tries to figure out if he is winning. Flip. Not that it matters. Someone once told him the House always wins.
Eight of Spades. Two of Clubs. Four of Spades. They line up in perfect rows, and he wonders if he has too many. Sometimes there are three. Sometimes five. Sometimes nine. The diamonds look like blades if you squint your eyes enough. He blinks, and they form a cube. He blinks again and they're in a circle. The game's changed but he can't remember when he started playing. Another card skitters across the table. Seven of Spades.
"You miss your friends." He can't figure out if that's a question or a statement or a voice inside his own head, but he nods anyway. "I'm sure they're getting along fine where they are, don't you?" The Gambler wasn't even looking at him anymore. The eight is on the right now, covered by another card which is stark and black and white.
Ace of Spades.
"Ah well. Everything ends, doesn't it?" He can't explain why the Gambler's smile gives him chills sometimes. He's sure this man knows much more than he lets on.
Or else he just has everyone fooled.
Flip.
"So what are you going to do now?" the Gambler finally asks, and he knows now is the time to look up because the end of the game is coming soon and he needs to find out if he's won. His eyes drag slow, too slow, because he is afraid of what he'll see when he looks up: the Gambler always has the last card in his hand, and he always holds it up like a sentencing. The last card tells you everything you need to know.
"What can I do?" he asks, and he hates how hesitant his voice sounds, but that's how the dream goes. He's always been a little intimidated by the Gambler. Curious, but intimidated. It's his secret and private shame.
The Gambler taps the edge of the card before throwing it down. King of Hearts. Staring at the face, he finds it all too familiar, for he sees it every night for every night it sees him. The expression of the man on the card is hard and strong, his coat is red and passionate, but the eyes that stare at the heart in front of him are vacant.
"The King is Thirteen," the Gambler murmurs, before rising from the table and walking away.
-Study Three: Nightmares-
The first day he came to a shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask.
"Good afternoon," said the boy with the blue eyes.
"Have you come to buy a new suit?" asked the man. He was tall and his eyes were like holes behind his mask.
"Yes, I am," lied the boy with the blue eyes. He did not want a new suit, but he could not say otherwise no matter how much he wanted.
"Please try this one. I am sure you will like it."
He did not like it. The suit was too small in some places and too large in others. It itched painfully and he found it hard to breathe. But he could not take it off no matter how much he wanted.
"This suit does not fit," said the boy with the blue eyes. Surely the man would understand.
"Of course it does. Please have a nice day."
He did not have a nice day. He choked and stifled and sweat and his skin was raw and bleeding in the areas he had scratched too violently. The boy hated this suit. But he could not take it off no matter how much he wanted.
The next day he returned to the shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask. "I hope your suit is wearing you well."
"I suppose," said the boy with the blue eyes, though inside he did not suppose at all.
"You should do something for yourself," said the man in the red mask. "If you are beautiful inside you should be beautiful outside. Dyeing your hair would match your new suit."
"I do not want to dye my hair," said the boy with the blue eyes. He'd always been blond and blonde was a part of him. "I like it the way it is."
"You'll see what I mean," said the man with the red mask, and the boy could not disagree with him no matter how much he wanted.
The next day he returned to the shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask. "I hope your suit is wearing you well."
"I have come to return it."
"You cannot," said the man in the red mask, and the boy could not withstand the holes of the man's eyes no matter how much he wanted.
"I do not like it," said the boy with the blue eyes.
"But your friends do," said the man in the red mask, and the boy turned to look at the two people standing beside him. He did not know them. They were not his friends. But he could not reject them no matter how much he wanted.
"Ask them," said the man in the red mask, so he did.
"Do you like my new suit?" asked the boy with the blue eyes. The young man nodded; he wore a black shade over his eyes. The young girl nodded. Her veil was pink.
"Please have a nice day," said the man in the red mask.
Perhaps the suit was not so bad. It still choked him and itched him and drove him mad, but his friends liked it. And he could not disappoint his friends no matter how much he wanted.
The next day he returned to the shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask. "I hope your suit is wearing you well."
"Yes," said the boy. He did not say he wished to return the suit. He knew it would be pointless no matter how much he wanted.
"I see you have dyed your hair," said the man in the red mask.
The boy did not remember dyeing his hair, but even as he reached up to touch it he knew it was brown. Or perhaps it had always been brown, though knew it hadn't.
"It matches my new suit," he heard himself saying, and he could not stop the words no matter how much he wanted.
"I knew you would see it my way," said the man in the red mask. The boy hated him intensely.
But he supposed he should be grateful for the suit. It fit him so well after all. It didn't even itch.
"You look very handsome," said the girl in the pink veil. The young man with the black shade said, "Your hair suits you."
Perhaps brown was not such a bad color.
The next day he returned to the shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask.
"I was in here yesterday…wasn't I?" asked the boy with the blue eyes.
"I'm sure I couldn't say. But we have a fine selection of suits, if you would like to try one on."
"Thank you," said the boy with the blue eyes. "But I already have a very nice suit."
"I know," said the man with the red mask. "I hope it is wearing you well." The boy left, but he was sure he'd forgotten something very important, though he couldn't remember what it was no matter how much he wanted.
He went home. His friends followed behind in silence. He thought it was good that they were there, because he did not know who he would be without them.
The next day he returned to the shop.
"Good afternoon," said the man in the red mask. "I hope your suit is wearing you well."
"What suit?" asked the boy with the brown hair, and his eyes were like holes behind his mask.