02-19-2018, 09:11 PM
Jet had not slept well the night before, but the meeting with Beto had gone well. He had come back to his apartment in the city and poured himself a drink and then lay back on the couch, one arm behind his head, his feet crossed at the ankle on the opposite arm. He could hear the dull drone of traffic noise, busy even in the middle of the afternoon, but that only served to lull him to sleep. He could feel himself slipping away and thought a little alpha nap would be just the thing to bring his nerves back down from the high frequency where he’d been resonating since he’d gotten Mara’s letter. And Jet slept peacefully right up until the point where he started dreaming. And then there was nothing at all peaceful about it.
Dressed as a carny, his long locks pulled back into a braid, a dirty t-shirt and jeans, work boots, a cap with the “company” logo on it, Jet wandered aimlessly around what looked to be an old amusement park, long since abandoned. To all appearances he was alone, but he couldn’t help the feeling that something was after him.
After he found the first mutilated body, retching despite the fact that he was starting to realize he had to be dreaming, he started to try to wake himself up. Melany had always talked about feeling like she could control her dreams. When they were younger and he had the occasional nightmare, she had taught him to how to escape his own dreams. But acknowledging this was a dream and that he was asleep on his couch in his apartment and willing himself to wake up did not work this time. Despite a strong urge to fight it, Jet began to feel truly afraid.
“Just a dream, Jefferson. Time to wake up!”
But still, he dreamed.
When he started to see the dark, amorphous shapes out of the corners of his eyes, causing him to spin around but always outside of his vision, he began to run, stumbling through the park. Every time he thought he saw the dark little animals scurrying around, he would turn and they would not be there. He tripped backwards over another corpse and fell into the wall of a tent and almost fell through before catching his balance.
Jet turned around, rational though completely abandoning him, and he ran. The black shadowy shapes nipped at the heals of his work boots and tried to trip him up. And as was the way with dreams, he knew if he fell, if they caught him, that it would be the end of him. He wondered fleetingly if he would die in real life if he died in the dream. He pumped his arms and ran faster, tirelessly, as only a dreamer could run.
Eventually, he felt he had lost the small dark shapes. Metaphorically out of breath, he entered a tent with a squid on the sign and stumbled to a halt at the back of the stall, all the while chiding himself, telling himself it was a nightmare, and it was time to wake up.
Jet wasn’t sure if he heard or saw something or just sensed it, but the overwhelming fear consumed him until he slid down the wall of the tent and crawled under a table, wrapping himself within the tablecloth like a child hiding from the monster under his bed. When he heard them there, he held his breath until his lungs would burst and with a whimper of utmost terror, gave in to the fear, feeling whatever it was out there devour his soul.
Jet woke with a start, falling. He landed on the floor, arms and legs obviously thrashing enough to have knocked him off the couch. His left arm was completely asleep and his heart was beating so hard it was taking his breath away. Lying on the floor on his side, he quickly assessed himself for any damage. Once he was satisfied he probably hadn’t broken anything on his short fall from the couch to the floor, he slowly sat up, rubbing at his tingling arm. He closed his eyes and consciously began to work on slowing his breathing, his heartbeat, and little by little the abject terror subsided.
“Whoa.”
he whispered aloud as portions of the dream streamed forcefully back into his conscious brain, and his heart raced back up again, an irrational thought taking hold. He looked quickly all around the room. The dream had been so real that he almost expected to see the little black smudges just outside his vision. Reassured, but still shaken, he rose and went to the bar to pour himself another drink. He would be happy when all this was settled, and they were on their way to Moscow.
Dressed as a carny, his long locks pulled back into a braid, a dirty t-shirt and jeans, work boots, a cap with the “company” logo on it, Jet wandered aimlessly around what looked to be an old amusement park, long since abandoned. To all appearances he was alone, but he couldn’t help the feeling that something was after him.
After he found the first mutilated body, retching despite the fact that he was starting to realize he had to be dreaming, he started to try to wake himself up. Melany had always talked about feeling like she could control her dreams. When they were younger and he had the occasional nightmare, she had taught him to how to escape his own dreams. But acknowledging this was a dream and that he was asleep on his couch in his apartment and willing himself to wake up did not work this time. Despite a strong urge to fight it, Jet began to feel truly afraid.
“Just a dream, Jefferson. Time to wake up!”
But still, he dreamed.
When he started to see the dark, amorphous shapes out of the corners of his eyes, causing him to spin around but always outside of his vision, he began to run, stumbling through the park. Every time he thought he saw the dark little animals scurrying around, he would turn and they would not be there. He tripped backwards over another corpse and fell into the wall of a tent and almost fell through before catching his balance.
Jet turned around, rational though completely abandoning him, and he ran. The black shadowy shapes nipped at the heals of his work boots and tried to trip him up. And as was the way with dreams, he knew if he fell, if they caught him, that it would be the end of him. He wondered fleetingly if he would die in real life if he died in the dream. He pumped his arms and ran faster, tirelessly, as only a dreamer could run.
Eventually, he felt he had lost the small dark shapes. Metaphorically out of breath, he entered a tent with a squid on the sign and stumbled to a halt at the back of the stall, all the while chiding himself, telling himself it was a nightmare, and it was time to wake up.
Jet wasn’t sure if he heard or saw something or just sensed it, but the overwhelming fear consumed him until he slid down the wall of the tent and crawled under a table, wrapping himself within the tablecloth like a child hiding from the monster under his bed. When he heard them there, he held his breath until his lungs would burst and with a whimper of utmost terror, gave in to the fear, feeling whatever it was out there devour his soul.
Jet woke with a start, falling. He landed on the floor, arms and legs obviously thrashing enough to have knocked him off the couch. His left arm was completely asleep and his heart was beating so hard it was taking his breath away. Lying on the floor on his side, he quickly assessed himself for any damage. Once he was satisfied he probably hadn’t broken anything on his short fall from the couch to the floor, he slowly sat up, rubbing at his tingling arm. He closed his eyes and consciously began to work on slowing his breathing, his heartbeat, and little by little the abject terror subsided.
“Whoa.”
he whispered aloud as portions of the dream streamed forcefully back into his conscious brain, and his heart raced back up again, an irrational thought taking hold. He looked quickly all around the room. The dream had been so real that he almost expected to see the little black smudges just outside his vision. Reassured, but still shaken, he rose and went to the bar to pour himself another drink. He would be happy when all this was settled, and they were on their way to Moscow.