The dream diary

Dear diary

Isn't that how you are supposed to begin? Dear diary? Well, here I am. Giving this 'diary thing' a shot.

I'm having difficulties on where to start… Honestly, I never thought of myself as someone who would write a diary. But then again, I never thought I would be someone who visits a shrink, and yet - that is exactly what I am doing. Visiting a shrink and keeping a diary because she recommended it. I'm sure I sound a lot more cheerful than I actually am, which is, obviously, a defence mechanism. My life is a mess. The problem is, that I don't really know why, and maybe that is the part that freaks me out the most. I like order, I like structure and I prefer to know instead of to feel, but lately feeling is all I do, and it is all because of those blasted dreams.

My shrink said that I am an extraordinary dreamer. But aren't dreams just dreams? That's what I always thought. But no! Apparently my dreams are especially "imaginative" and "lifelike". I always thought that this is what dreams are supposed to be.

As long as I can remember, I have always had very detailed and almost cinematic dreams. I never really gave it much thought. Doesn't everyone? Everyone occasionally dreams of people that they never met, places they haven't actually visited or things that aren't real, don't they? Amazing things like; mythical creatures, adventures, friendship, magic, love, loss and sorrow. That's not weird, is it?

Yes, the dreams will occasionally leave me with a feeling that will linger for longer that appropriate, but the feelings that haunt me after such a dream are always easy to explain - logically speaking. I mean, who wouldn't feel miserable when dreaming about a red head boy being killed by a strange green light, or a blond girl being torn in half for no apparent reason. The only thing is, I never even knew any of those people. They are just some fragment of my imagination. Being sad about someone dying, even if you don't know the person - even if it is just a dream, isn't that hard to phantom. But being so overwhelmed with sadness that you are incapable of getting out of bed for two days, definitely isn't normal. By the way. The red head and the blond aren't the only ones dying. There are many more. I try not to keep count.

Strangely enough, the dreams of people dying aren't even the worst ones. The worst one is about… Okay, I'm not ready… I will get back to that.

Dear diary

All right. I think I'm ready now, but let me just start by explaining what that particular dream did to me and why it was so much worse than any of the others.

It… how can I describe it… It confused my reality. Both during and after dreaming, I couldn't seem to grasp what was real at what wasn't. The experience kept me prisoner for what felt like weeks, shifting between dream and reality: what was real and what simply couldn't be real. Like falling in and out of sleep for an eternity while struggling to keep the emotions that the dream caused at bay and not loose myself completely in my own mind. Like slowly losing a battle against sanity where you ultimately drew the shortest straw.

Okay – the timeframe in which this happened is a little fuzzy. One moment I was alone knowing I was awake, the next he was there and it felt so real, which, of course, it couldn't be! There was no sign of anyone entering my apartment, no sign whatsoever that anyone had been in my room besides me.

It is not so much the dream in itself. The dream is rather harmless… well… maybe not that harmless per say, but not much worse than many of the other dreams that I have had. No. It is more about what the dream did to me - and might do to me when I revisit it… To be honest, it scares the hell out of me! I can actually feel my sanity slipping through my fingers just writing about it!

Luckily a dream like that only occurred once. But the effect it had on me was just so… agonizing. Which is also why I decided to look up a shrink. Looking back, it might have been a bit rash, especially considering that it might very well have been a onetime only experience. True, my other dreams where kind of holding me back in some sense, but nothing I couldn't handle. My shrink thinks it might be a gateway to some suppressed experience. I think it's just because of the accident where I injured my head about two years ago. I woke up in the hospital with a minor case of memory loss and memory confusion. Nothing to significant.

Alright… so I might be staling now… trying to avoid having to actually put that particular dream into writing. It is strange really. I'm terrified to face it, but at the same time I'm terrified that I might lose it if I put it into mere words…

I think I have to take a break now. I will be back. I promise!

Dear diary

So. About that dream. As I mentioned earlier. The incident, or the dream, didn't happen consequently. It was broken into fragments disrupted by my mind returning to my empty bedroom as I can see it from my bed. I will try to piece the fragments together though. Try to make it whole.

Oh heavens. I can't believe I'm actually doing this!

For sanity!

… It all comes back to those eyes. Those stormy grey eyes.

I remember dreaming about them and their owner, on earlier occasions, but somehow it was always in past tense. I know. It sounds weird. How can a dream be in past tense? But that this is the only way to describe it.

Moving on…

In the dream I find myself walking down a crowded street. There are people all around me, walking towards something or away from something. Me? I'm not sure if I have a destination, I don't remember.

All of a sudden my eyes are caught by a pair of stormy grey once, looking at me as if they know me. They are captivating and hold my gaze without shyness, without looking away. It makes me feel wary and I lower my gaze for a brief moment. When I look back they are gone and an unmanageable sadness overwhelms me. Why did I look away? Why didn't I pay more attention? It feels as if something important has been taken from me.

In the blink of an eye I find myself sitting at a coffee table in front of a small café that I like. I look around, and there they are. The stormy grey eyes. This time I don't look away. I hold the gaze intently. After many long volatile minutes, I risk taking a closer look at their owner.

I'm sure not every female on the planet would perceive him as I did, but oh my! His silvery blond hair falling messily down his forehead. Those broad shoulders highlighted by an expensive looking grey V-neck sweater a white collar sticking out. That posture that simply radiates confidence and masculinity. It captivates me more than anything I have ever seen. And his face… that marble skin and those mesmerizing grey eyes… it leaves me breathless.

My heart beats rapidly as he approaches me. His eyes locked on mine. As he reaches me he grabs my hand and pulls me out of the chair. Then he snakes his arm around my waist gripping tightly. The familiarity of his grip hits me almost as hard as the familiarity of his scent.

Leaning in he whispers "Not here love. They might see us!" Not able to withstand, I follow him around the corner and find myself in the alley behind the café. There he turns to me and drags me in for a hug. I feel a strange pull behind my navel, and all of a sudden we are in my apartment, inside my bedroom.

"Salazar knows how much I have missed you" he breathes into my ear as he presses me against the closed bedroom door. "I didn't think you would remember me after what they did to you!" his words are nothing more than a whisper filled with regret. Even though I have no idea what he is talking about, his presence fills me with longing and I desperately drag him closer to me, tilting my head upwards, searching for his mouth, some kind of instinct taking over.

His lips meet mine and a strange feeling of excitement and familiarity washes over me. "Hermione…" he whispers in-between kisses. "Hermione… my love". Greedily he presses his body even closer to mine, and I feel the doorknob pressing uncomfortably against my back. It is the pain caused by the doorknob that finally gives me the willpower and mental activity to react to what he is saying. "It must be some kind of mistake" I breath "I am not her. I am not Hermione. I'm not even sure that I know you…"

I regret instantly as he steps away from me, horror and shock distorting his beautiful features. His sudden absence and the look in his eyes strike me with incomprehensible fear and a sense of irreversible loss.

"I thought… the look you gave me… that kiss!" the crushing devastation that is reflected in his eyes weigh down on me as a physical force and I reach out to touch him, but then everything escalates… I have to stop now…

Dear diary

It has been three days since I last wrote in you. I can't believe I actually wrote all of that in one sitting! This is so much harder than I thought it would be! Unfortunately, the worst has yet to come and I really dread this part. But I do think it might actually be helping, so now I'm just going to jump into it.

… He is standing there with that soul crushing look on his face. It feels as if an old wound is being ripped open and I reach out to touch him. This is when it happens…

A loud crack interrupts us and two things happen very quickly after one another. A strange silvery light shoots from the hand of the guy with the stormy grey eyes and I feel a strange tingling sensation, as if someone just cracked an egg over my head. Then I am thrown against the wall by a huge shockwave. My head whips forcefully against the wall and my vision turns blurry. As I slide to the floor I can only vaguely see the outline of three shadowy figures in in the middle of the room. One of them scrambling around on the floor.

It is the guy with the stormy grey eyes. I recognize his silver blond hair like a lit torch. He is on all fours on the floor desperately searching the ground for something, and that is when the two other figures start firing strange lights at him. Just for fun it seems, because he doesn't stand a chance from where he is sprawled on the floor, face down, now screaming in agony.

I try to move. All of my being is crying for me to get up, to help him, but my head is heavy and clouded. I blackout, and when I finally return to consciousness I see him hovering above the ground in front of the two, which I can now identify as tall figures in long black garments.

Thick ropes are coiled tightly around his body like snakes. One of the ropes is twisted around his neck, forcing his head back. The two hooded figures are talking with each other as if they were just having a relaxed conversation. One of them lazily lifts his arm, pointing at the guy with the silver hair, and without another warning I hear an agonizing scream as a rapid red line is appearing across his chest, actually spraying heavy drops of blood across the celling and the wall just above me and then blooming out across his chest.

I try to scream, but the hoarse whimper that escapes my lips is easily drowned by his excruciating screams as the hooded figure keeps slashing deep wounds in his flexed body. Then I try again, with all that is within me, to get up, to fight, but once again I disappear into the darkness.

There is so much blood. Splatters on the wall, on the celling and a pool on the floor, below where he is still hovering. At that moment, the sun brakes through the clouds outside my window, and its rays hit the glistening surface and bathes the room in light. If it hadn't been so heart wrecking, life ending, indescribably devastating, it could have been beautiful. Like confetti. Or rose pedals.

He is hanging lifeless in the middle of the room. Turning. Turning. Turning like a rack doll on a string. There are slash wounds all over his body, smiling mockingly at me. There is no way to tell if he is still alive. But he has to be. He can't be dead. I'm sure I would know. Weakly I try to raise myself, but again, I feel my grasp on reality slowly slipping through my hands.

"Wasn't there a girl with him?" I hear one of the hooded figures say moments before I pass out once more. "Who cares about some skank he was about to shag, it's the Malfoy traitor he wants" then I slip into unconsciousness.

When I finally wake up, I am lying in my bed. There are no blood splatters on the walls or the celling. No pool of blood where he hung. No evidence whatsoever pointing in the direction that anyone has been in my apartment except me. There is no logical explanation for all of this. Nothing that points in the direction of this being anything but a dream. Yes, a horrific and terrible nightmare, but still, just a dream. And yet my heart refuses to believe what my brain has concluded: that I am mad and in dire need of help.

It felt so real, and yet it couldn't have been. Hopefully, one day, I will be able to escape my mind and go back to living my life. A normal life that I can't even recall having ever lived and that I am not even sure is worth living.