The Dream Cycle Two: Fitful Sleep
By Ginger
*Gasping...*
*Her chest heavy...*
*Heaving...*
*Building panic...*
*Fighting for breath...*
*Can't breathe...*
*Blind terror...*
Her eyes snapped open, wide and staring as she continued to gasp, swallowing air in big gulps to no avail because she still couldn't catch her breath. She bolted upright in bed, blinking and sucking in air, trying desperately to make her heart rate slow to something approaching a normal rhythm. But the tightness in her chest, like a vice squeezing her heart and lungs, would not abate.
It was the room. There was no air in the room. She threw off the covers and lunged from bed, charging to the door and yanking it open. Once in the hall, she felt her lungs begin to fill but not enough, not nearly enough. Reaching the stairs, she practically took them two at a time, desperate to get to the first floor. There would be more air down there. She would be able to breathe. It would be okay.
It had to be.
Fifth night in a row, she thought as she sat on the couch in darkness and struggled to bring her breathing under control, just as she had every night since the accident with the deer. A lifelong veteran of nightmares, she shuddered to think what she could possibly be dreaming that was so horrible as to awaken her in such a state, and unable to remember anything about it.
*"Are you alright?"*
She had half expected a call that first night, having long abandoned the pointless exercise of pondering how the hell he knew everything that happened to her as soon as it happened and sometimes, it seemed, even before.
*"Why does everyone keep asking me that? No, I am not alright! I haven't been alright in a very long time, if ever! And I consider it highly unlikely that I will ever be alright again!"*
She'd heard that sigh, the one that told her too much, too much she shouldn't know: that his patience was infinite, his concern genuine, his understanding complete like no one else's ever would or could be.
*"I was referring specifically to the laceration on your forehead."*
She hated the weariness that had crept incrementally into his voice since that first late-night conversation, years, and what now seemed like a lifetime, ago. For him, it was. He was getting tired, growing cynical. It was to be expected, she supposed, that he couldn't maintain that joie de vivre he'd felt immediately after his escape. Everything was so new and exciting back then and that was bound to wear off, leaving him to view the world more realistically and, therefore, more critically. It made complete sense but that didn't stop her from hating it.
*"It's right at my hairline and Syd patched me up so it should be fine, although he was plenty ticked off that I refused to go to the hospital. Then again, Raines was the last person he sutured and look at him."*
Even the small chuckle he'd emitted sounded tired. He wasn't sleeping either, but then, that was nothing new. Maybe it was just finally catching up with him.
*"Are you sure it was really an accident?"*
*"Unless they're now training an elite team of deer assassins to hurl themselves in my path, then I guess it was."*
It had been her turn to expel a pathetic chuckle at the fact that her words should have sounded a lot more preposterous than they did. Hanging up, she'd spent the rest of the night drinking scotch and musing about the darkly comical aspects of her life.
*"You're awake..."*
*"And?"*
*"At this hour... two nights in a row."*
*"So? If it's a crime, call a cop."*
She'd been faintly amused at his surprise to find her again wide-awake on the second night. There had been a hint of disappointment in his voice, as if he'd been deprived of the inalienable right of waking her from a sound sleep at 3:00 a.m. The surprise was gone the night after that.
*"You appear to have adopted my sleep patterns... not one of my better habits."*
*"Well, I wasn't likely to pick up one of your better habits, was I?"*
By the fourth night, concern had crept into his voice.
*"You're having nightmares."*
It had been a statement of fact, not a question. She'd had no inclination to share her nighttime adventures but hadn't bothered to prevaricate. There was no point in wasting the energy; he'd have seen right through her.
*"What are you dreaming about?"*
*"Don't know. Don't want to know. What difference does it make? I can't imagine how it could possibly be worse than the reality I face when I'm wide-awake. Daddy's gone and that monster is my father."*
She had not shared the part about the inability to breathe, figuring it was none of his damned business. But now the phone was ringing and she still hadn't caught her breath. Either he was calling earlier than usual tonight or she'd awaken later. Just let it ring, she thought. But she could no more do that than keep herself from sucking in the next mouthful of air.
"I... don't... it's..."
"What is it?"
"Can't... breathe... I... wake... up... and... can't... breathe."
"Night terrors... an anxiety attack. You'll be fine. You are breathing. Steady now... even breaths... you're okay... that's good... very good... there you go... you're okay... you'll be fine... just fine."
She focused on his soothing voice and calm, even breaths until her own breathing became calm and even, the weight completely disappeared from her chest, and her heart rate returned to normal.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Anytime," he whispered back before hanging up.
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By Ginger
*Gasping...*
*Her chest heavy...*
*Heaving...*
*Building panic...*
*Fighting for breath...*
*Can't breathe...*
*Blind terror...*
Her eyes snapped open, wide and staring as she continued to gasp, swallowing air in big gulps to no avail because she still couldn't catch her breath. She bolted upright in bed, blinking and sucking in air, trying desperately to make her heart rate slow to something approaching a normal rhythm. But the tightness in her chest, like a vice squeezing her heart and lungs, would not abate.
It was the room. There was no air in the room. She threw off the covers and lunged from bed, charging to the door and yanking it open. Once in the hall, she felt her lungs begin to fill but not enough, not nearly enough. Reaching the stairs, she practically took them two at a time, desperate to get to the first floor. There would be more air down there. She would be able to breathe. It would be okay.
It had to be.
Fifth night in a row, she thought as she sat on the couch in darkness and struggled to bring her breathing under control, just as she had every night since the accident with the deer. A lifelong veteran of nightmares, she shuddered to think what she could possibly be dreaming that was so horrible as to awaken her in such a state, and unable to remember anything about it.
*"Are you alright?"*
She had half expected a call that first night, having long abandoned the pointless exercise of pondering how the hell he knew everything that happened to her as soon as it happened and sometimes, it seemed, even before.
*"Why does everyone keep asking me that? No, I am not alright! I haven't been alright in a very long time, if ever! And I consider it highly unlikely that I will ever be alright again!"*
She'd heard that sigh, the one that told her too much, too much she shouldn't know: that his patience was infinite, his concern genuine, his understanding complete like no one else's ever would or could be.
*"I was referring specifically to the laceration on your forehead."*
She hated the weariness that had crept incrementally into his voice since that first late-night conversation, years, and what now seemed like a lifetime, ago. For him, it was. He was getting tired, growing cynical. It was to be expected, she supposed, that he couldn't maintain that joie de vivre he'd felt immediately after his escape. Everything was so new and exciting back then and that was bound to wear off, leaving him to view the world more realistically and, therefore, more critically. It made complete sense but that didn't stop her from hating it.
*"It's right at my hairline and Syd patched me up so it should be fine, although he was plenty ticked off that I refused to go to the hospital. Then again, Raines was the last person he sutured and look at him."*
Even the small chuckle he'd emitted sounded tired. He wasn't sleeping either, but then, that was nothing new. Maybe it was just finally catching up with him.
*"Are you sure it was really an accident?"*
*"Unless they're now training an elite team of deer assassins to hurl themselves in my path, then I guess it was."*
It had been her turn to expel a pathetic chuckle at the fact that her words should have sounded a lot more preposterous than they did. Hanging up, she'd spent the rest of the night drinking scotch and musing about the darkly comical aspects of her life.
*"You're awake..."*
*"And?"*
*"At this hour... two nights in a row."*
*"So? If it's a crime, call a cop."*
She'd been faintly amused at his surprise to find her again wide-awake on the second night. There had been a hint of disappointment in his voice, as if he'd been deprived of the inalienable right of waking her from a sound sleep at 3:00 a.m. The surprise was gone the night after that.
*"You appear to have adopted my sleep patterns... not one of my better habits."*
*"Well, I wasn't likely to pick up one of your better habits, was I?"*
By the fourth night, concern had crept into his voice.
*"You're having nightmares."*
It had been a statement of fact, not a question. She'd had no inclination to share her nighttime adventures but hadn't bothered to prevaricate. There was no point in wasting the energy; he'd have seen right through her.
*"What are you dreaming about?"*
*"Don't know. Don't want to know. What difference does it make? I can't imagine how it could possibly be worse than the reality I face when I'm wide-awake. Daddy's gone and that monster is my father."*
She had not shared the part about the inability to breathe, figuring it was none of his damned business. But now the phone was ringing and she still hadn't caught her breath. Either he was calling earlier than usual tonight or she'd awaken later. Just let it ring, she thought. But she could no more do that than keep herself from sucking in the next mouthful of air.
"I... don't... it's..."
"What is it?"
"Can't... breathe... I... wake... up... and... can't... breathe."
"Night terrors... an anxiety attack. You'll be fine. You are breathing. Steady now... even breaths... you're okay... that's good... very good... there you go... you're okay... you'll be fine... just fine."
She focused on his soothing voice and calm, even breaths until her own breathing became calm and even, the weight completely disappeared from her chest, and her heart rate returned to normal.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Anytime," he whispered back before hanging up.
# # # #