The Dreamwalker’s Mission

It was never easy walking through another's dreams. The chaos could throw off even the most organized minds. One moment you’re in complete darkness, the next in blinding light. You could be walking through a scorching desert and then suddenly be overtaken by a thunderstorm in a tropical rainforest. Yet there is always a pattern, if you dig deep enough, a reason why this person is dreaming these things, and that’s what I had to get to the bottom of.

If I could stop them from dreaming these things, then maybe—just maybe—it could help them resolve the problems in real life. That’s what I was paid for.

But this job was different. For one, I wasn’t being paid. No amount of money would matter as much as this assignment. It was far too personal. And that’s why my colleagues said I shouldn’t do it—but I was going to anyway.

The other thing that made this job different was that my client didn’t know that I was doing it…and if I had it my way, he never would.

As I walked through the bleak dark hallway that made up my client’s dream realm, I looked from door to door, searching. Some of the doors I opened, very slowly and carefully so as to not alert my client that something was happening in his mind.

One door opened up to peaceful lake, water lapping against the shore. The sun beat down unforgivingly. A man and a little girl rowed a canoe out in the middle of the lake, talking about nothing and everything.

I smiled slightly and closed the door.

The next door opened to an amusement park. I cringed at the screaming that it let out, the fighting between that same man and a woman as two young boys and that little girl stood off to the side. I quickly closed that door as well.

I tip-toed down the hall, peeking through the cracks in the doors and daring to only open a few. Laughter emanated from some, cries from others, yelling from still others—no two were ever the same. Some were incomprehensible, with distorted figures and colors that I had only seen in people’s imaginations. Others were quite ordinary, plucked right out of my client’s memories.

My heart squeezed at many of these images, and I had to remind myself of the task at hand. I could not get emotional, not now. This was too important.

Finally, I found a door left more ajar than the others. The man from the other rooms was screaming; something crashed and broke. The woman was crying, but something seemed off about her. She lay in bed, her eyes glassed over and her mouth slack as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Brown gunk lightly traced her lips. Medical equipment strewn the bedroom.

“Stupid fucking thing!” the man yelled as he threw a finger heart monitor at the wall. Tears streamed down his face as well. He turned to the woman and grabbed her arms. “Come on, we gotta get you sitting up. We gotta get you sitting up if we’re going to get you to the specialist.”

“I…I can’t…” the woman muttered.

“You have to!” the man yelled. More tears came. His face turned red. “Damn it, you have to try!”

He pulled on her arms, and she cried out in pain.

“Damn it, don’t you even care?” the man said. He dropped her arms and paced the room. “God damn it, you have to try!”

The woman cried.

“I…I can’t…”

I closed the door. My eyes watered. I shook my head. It was no time to get emotional.

With a flex of my hand, a key appeared in my palm. All I had to do was lock this door, and my client would never have this dream again…

The ground shook. Lights in the hallway flickered. The walls around me twisted and morphed.

“No!” I cried. “No, I’m not done!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you are,” the man’s voice told me.

The hallway transformed into the bedroom from behind the final door. Absent were the woman and the medical equipment. Lying on the bed now was the man, much weaker and skinnier. He smiled sadly at me and motioned for me to take the empty spot on the bed—her spot.

“Dad, please, let me finish my work,” I said without moving. “It will make you feel better.”

Dad shook his head.

“No, it won’t. I know you think it will—”

“I know it will! I’ve seen it happen before.”

“Unless you can make me forget her entirely—”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“And I don’t want you to, but that’s the only way that I’ll feel better.”

I sniffled.

“But if you don’t keep dwelling on that last time…”

“Then I’ll still miss her.”

Silence fell between us.

Heaviness grew within my chest and poured out of my eyes. I lay down on the bed and, like a five-year-old, curled up beside my father. He wrapped his arms around me. He smelled just like he did in real life: sunscreen, sweat, and rum.

“I miss her, too,” I said into his chest.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

***

Author’s Note: This piece was written for L.C. Schäfer’s Quote Me Baby (Vocal Legends Edition) Challenge, using a quote from the great Paul Stewart’s “Dreamwalker Protocol”, both of which can be found below.

Edit: Also, at Mother Combs’s encouragement, this story has been entered into ViM’s Where the Dreamwalker Treads Challenge, which can also be found below.