BAD DREAMS

An Original Short Story by Matthew Koumentakos:

I keep having the same dreams. I go to sleep hoping it won’t happen. I’ve started counting. 106 nights in a row. I’ve tried lucid dreaming, maybe to control it. I’ve even tried hypnosis. I’ve tried things I’m not sure I even believe in. All these nights… They make me feel like I live in Hell. I even try to stay up all night and just take naps. They happen then. No escaping them. 

Now… Make it 107 nights. I’m up. The same cold sweats.  The same tense feeling in my chest. I grind my teeth in my sleep. Dog’s barking outside. They never stop, it must be when they see people walking in the morning. They are like Roosters, waking up the farmer. I don’t like it.

I head to the bathroom. I look in the mirror every day, trying not to feel so uncanny. Hoping the scars would just disappear. 107 days and nights… I look like a monster. It must be karma. That’s what I think.

I’m hideous. My skin drips off my bones. My fingers are twisted. The world chewed me and spit me out. 

The days are the same. The nights are the same. It’s the little things that are different. I’m making a bagel instead of eggs. I don’t even turn on the TV. I shower cold, not hot. Because I can’t control the variables, I can’t control the nightmares. I can control the mundane.

They sting. My scars, I mean. My spine feels like it’s on fire. It must be karma, I used to find it funny when my Father would complain about his back. I used to make fun of his wrinkles. His face was wrinkly. Now mine is falling off the bone… I’d rather be like him…Then like this. 

I’m on the way to work. I have this compulsion to just drive down the freeway… and see where it takes me. Every day is the same, and I can’t quite seem to pull myself from the fangs of fate. Its claws are in me. It’s been 107 days since I’ve actively participated in my own life. It’s just happening to me now.

“Today’s weather”- I cut it off. The radio is so crunchy, almost like white noise. “Breaking news:  Matthew Koumentakos, Film Director has gone missing! He was last seen outside of a Club in South-East Harlem. Bystanders reportedly saw him speaking on the phone, he seemed distressed, pacing back and forth. Someone who was up close to him said that his “eyes were dilated and he definitely seemed like he was tweaking, but I couldn’t pick up what he was saying.” More developments will follow. Back to you John-.” I cut it off. I remember watching some of his movies. Never really stuck with me. I wanted to be an artist. And I wanted my art to stick with people. To leave an impact. He robbed Erik Oliver for the Oscar a few years back, I think. But what do I know?

I’m just gonna leave the radio off. The traffic is noisy enough. Getting to work is the hardest part. Because of the tugging, I feel to just let the road guide me. When I’m in my cubicle… It’s just mind-numbing. Spreadsheets are what feed me. My Mother used to tell me that “Love feeds the spirit”. Who can love me? Maybe 108 days ago. Things are different. And they’ll never be the same. My face. My back. My hands. My nails. My voice. I miss my voice. I can’t be loved. It’s just spreadsheets now.

I clock in. I open my drawer… I see myself on the cover of Forbes before I was relegated to this. Before I was a monster. I open my computer. Same as any day. I keep seeing the same number in my spreadsheets. 108. It’s like God is taunting me. It’s been that many days since I had everything. I lost everything 107 days ago. 108. 108. 108. 108. It’s almost funny. 108. They do say God has a sense of humor. But it’s cruel. We haven’t spoken in so long. I don’t think he wants to hear a thing. 

I clock out. Hours of nothing. I’m driving home. I prefer the radio on drives home, everyone is so much more annoying on the road during rush hour back. “Sunday is Gloomy” I’ve heard this song. God, what’s so funny? “My hours are slumberless, Dearest the shadows, I live with are numberless” I keep listening, for whatever reason. “Little white flowers, Will awake you”. I’m switching the channel. “Breaking news! Film Director Matthew Koumentakos has been found dead. The cause of death is currently unknown, but many speculate it was an overdose. He was found unresponsive in his room at The Four Seasons at 1:23 P.M.” I switch it off. So many nameless people die, why care about a director? I guess it means something to someone. 

I’m home. I’m making dinner. Just some chicken and rice. I can’t be bothered making anything else. I am out of sauce. I don’t want it. I throw packaged ramen in the microwave and eat it fast. I don’t even enjoy eating, I just do it to survive. I sit on the couch. TV is on channel 108. I didn’t even think of that. Ha. My favorite show is on channel 108. I’m starting to get the joke… It’s a detective show. I look forward to it. 

Something is bothering me. The main character finds the dead body of a TV show director in room 108 of his hotel. Deformed by some acid… Just like me. I can’t understand it. It’s like God is showing me everything I don’t wanna see. It isn't a coincidence. 

I head to bed early. Might as well face the nightmares early. I close my eyes.

“Sunday is gloomy

My hours are Slumberless

Dearest the shadows

I live with are numberless

Little white flowers

Will never awaken you

Not where the black coach

Of sorrow has taken you

Angels have no thoughts

Of ever returning you..”