Liam Connors

He knew to look for her by the fountain. He took a seat on the white, marble bench, where he’d waited for her so many times before. Eagerly awaiting her approach, he thought back to the first time they met.

That night had been only his fourth time fully immersed. After a month of research, a few weeks of practice, and some rather unpleasant trial and error, he had finally found the proper process and mindset that allowed him full cognizance when he was asleep. The first few times, he experienced sensations he never could have imagined, but they’d all soon be forgotten. After he found the garden, it was the only place he cared to return to.

He recalled how he found himself on a stamped concrete walkway, cool and smooth beneath his bare feet. A white fog hid either side of the walkway, but the path ahead was clear, so he made his way forward. In front of him stood a large, ivy-covered archway above an ornate black gate with its doors open wide. As he walked through the gate, the fog subsided, and he saw, at once, the magnitude of this world.

Before his eyes stood a five-tiered stone fountain that could be no less than twenty feet high, and triple that in diameter. Behind it, rows of bushes bloomed flowers of every color he could imagine, and above it all stood trees as high as his eyes could see. The ground was a beautiful masonic tapestry of pink and white stone. The air, misty but clear.

He circled the fountain and ran his hands across the base, feeling the intricacies of the sculpted stone beneath his fingers. He dipped his right hand into the water, but when it resurfaced not a drop remained on his skin.

A quarter of his way around the fountain, he lifted his eyes to find the outline of a woman standing in the bushes. She wore a bright yellow sundress that stood out amongst the greenery, overshadowed only by the scarlet waves that cascaded down her back. Though she was the only person there aside from him, she did not feel out of place. In fact, he felt as if she were right at home, and he was the one who was intruding. He stared at her inquisitively for only a second before she turned her head to look at him. He felt her eyes pierce his skin, and he quickly looked away, but she was already on her way towards him. Her legs floating beneath the folds of the sundress, her bare feet gliding over the ground in front of them.

When she finally stood in front of him, he saw her more clearly. She had green eyes, a shade darker than the bushes from which she came, and behind them, ambiguity. She was beautiful, but in a way that is easily overlooked to those who can’t look beyond what they see. Though she was not breathtaking, she could steal someone’s breath, and he found himself victim of this thievery. She did not speak, yet he felt afraid. He felt she had a power, a knowledge, something that made her exist on a level that he had not yet reached. He realized that she was waiting for him to say something, but his shock had made him short for words.

“Where are we?” he stammered. It was all he could think to say.

“You tell me,” she whispered back through a playful smile.

 

He rose that morning in a cold sweat. Usually he felt fulfilled upon return, like he’d been resting for days rather than hours, but something about last night lingered. He couldn’t help but feel unsettled, though he struggled to understand why. He tried to remember what it could have been, but the closer he got to the memory, the farther it moved away.

Though the memory faded, he knew that there was something important about last night, and he became eager to journey back. He decided against the second cup of coffee that day, and he worked himself a bit harder in the gym, all to ensure a restful night’s sleep.

As he laid to bed that night, he was fearful that he wouldn’t find what he’d thought so important the night before. He didn’t know where to look, nor what to look for. He simply felt that there was something waiting for him.

Despite the reproach, he ultimately took solace in his capability to surrender unto himself, hoping that he would be taken back to where he’d needed to be. And if he wasn’t, then maybe it wasn’t so important after all. Thus, he lay to rest, and set an alarm for four o’clock in the morning.

When his alarm went off, his mind woke, but he kept his body still. This was all part of his process. He had to allot a specific time of the night to awaken his mind but keep his body asleep. It was a split of oneself. One half remained in the realm of dreamers, one half in the world of consciousness. Though he’d begun to master the approach, his anxiety still ran high at the commencement of every journey, so he had to fight the urge to open his eyes, move his head, or do anything that might break the nocturnal spell.

Before long, he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. This, too, was a part of the process, though far more difficult. It involved total paralysis, accompanied by otherworldly terrors.

As he lay motionless, an unseen force pushed him down onto the bed, crushing his chest until he felt completely suffocated. Though his eyes were shut, he could see dark figures creeping across his room towards him. His arms were filled with lead. His legs felt as if they’d been turned to liquid. There was no defense against the inhuman creatures swirling throughout the room.

Fake. He thought. Fake. Fake. It’s all part of the process. Remember the goal.

One of the figures reached a wispy, shadow of a hand out and gripped his throat. Cold sweat began to creep out from all of his pores as the remaining air in his lungs ballooned, and he could no longer breathe. 

Fake. He told himself. It’s not real.

He began to sink, but now he acted on his own. The final step of the journey. He sank away from the reaching hand, out of his room, and through a colorless cloud of terror and euphoria. In an instant, the cloud spit him out onto a concrete pathway, enveloped on either side by a white fog.

Though he had no idea where he was going, he followed the path ahead. His legs felt heavy beneath him, as if he were fighting off a strong wind to move forward. With every step he took, his legs felt lighter. With every step he took, his memories came back slowly.

The garden. He thought. The girl.

This time, she did not hide herself amongst the bushes. She stood over the fountain, glaring into the water, in plain sight as he walked through the gate. He wondered if she were simply staring at her own reflection, though he couldn’t blame her if she was. He had never seen a sight so mesmerising, even in his dreams.

He slid up beside her, skeptically, and felt his stomach drop as she turned to him. He studied her face for a moment, trying to figure out who she was, truly. Someone he’d glimpsed in passing? A friend? An amalgamation? But there was no one he saw in her but herself. She was unique.

She took his hand and walked him forward, past the fountain and into the bushes. There were freshly-mown walking paths between each row, coming together and then breaking apart in a maze of green. As they walked through, he studied the details of the world around him, astonished at the complexities and entranced by the beauty. I made this, he thought.

As they emerged from the trail, they stood before a brook, with water so smooth it looked like silk at first. She glanced at him, and began to run towards the water. Not minding that she was fully clothed, she threw herself into the water and began to swim.

He followed behind. At first with just his eyes, but soon with his body as well. 

He waded himself deeper and deeper into the brook until only his head showed above the waterline. Across from him, she stood tall and untouched by the water, as if she’d found a bank to perch upon that he could not see. He stopped for a moment, and stared at her with the wonder of a child looking up at the stars.

But as he admired her, she started to sink. Down and down she went. All the while, her face remained calm. She didn’t move a muscle. He started towards her once more, but he found that his muscles and limbs were weakening with every movement. With all his power, he could move no more than a finger. He, too, began to sink.

Motionless, he slipped beneath the water. His eyes told him he was drowning, but his body felt as if he were soaring. The water enveloped him, until all he could see was different colors surrounding him. He felt the water turn to gas, as they all became one beneath the surface of the cloud. Him, the colors, the water from the brook. And her. She was there, somewhere next to him, though he couldn’t know where. He searched, and though he saw her face at every turn, he could not find her. As he finally saw her hand reach out, he felt himself drifting farther and farther away from it.

As he woke, he neither sweat nor shivered. He simply felt empty.

 

For the next few weeks, Charlie followed a strict routine. He’d be in bed by eleven, alarm set for four o’clock, and he’d be with her just minutes after. They had begun to explore their little world together every night. Though he was the architect of this magnificence, she knew what lay beyond every turn, even when he did not. If not for the fact that she held every ounce of his attention, he could have spent hours admiring the details of his surroundings. But as incredible as the world was, she was twice that.

After the first few visits with her, he began to remember more and more each time he woke up. In the beginning, he could scarcely remember what had happened to him the night before, but as time went on, he could remember how he felt when he was with her, how she smelled, how her hands felt on his. He could see her face even when his eyes were open. He could smell the trees that they sat beneath when he was at work. He could feel the touch of her hair on his shoulder whenever he got lonely.

More importantly, he’d begun to have more control over himself. He no longer wisped away from his dreams without warning, now he could feel when he was waking, and he left willingly. Nor did his dreams much feel like dreams anymore. Where his vision was once shaded with cloudiness, he now saw clearly in his dreams. Colors that appeared dim became as vibrant as they were when he was awake. Sometimes, even moreso. And when he was with her, she no longer felt like a dream, she felt real. As real as anything he’d ever known. 

 

When he asked her name, she told him she didn’t have one. Besides, there was no one else around, so names were rendered pointless.

Most of their time together was spent walking and talking. When they first met, she would say very little, only responding when he spoke to her. As they spent more time together, she spoke plenty. She had a way with words that made everything she said sound profound. Her speech was poetry personified. He, on the other hand, felt like a child when he was around her. He stumbled with his words, blushed when he couldn’t think of something worthwhile to say, and when he did say something, it never sounded as good out loud as it did in his head. Mostly, he stayed quiet. He let her go on and on, and he loved every second of it.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked him one day, as they sat on a beach of cool, dark sand. They stared out across the expanse of blue before them, sneaking glances at each other only if they knew that the other wasn’t looking.

“How could you —,” he began, searching for the best way to respond to such an accusation, “yeah, I guess I am. A little.”

He saw no use in lying. She could always sense the truth.

“That’s okay. I like that you’re scared of me,” she laughed.

He felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t quite know what to say, as he didn’t really understand it himself. What truly scared him was how much control she had over him. In a way, he had never had more control over himself than he did when he was dreaming. He studied, practiced, and mastered the art of having so much control over himself that he could do anything he wanted when he was asleep. Yet, for all this, when he was with her, she was the one in power, and he was the one who was helpless.

She grabbed his hand, and he turned to her. He looked in her eyes, and for once he felt comfortable enough to speak his mind.

“I think I love you,” he admitted.

“You think? I think you love me, too,” she teased.

He put his head down, in disbelief that he lost his inhibitions for long enough to make a complete fool out of himself. But she put her hands on his chin and turned his head to hers. They kissed for the first time, and it was the sweetest taste that he’d ever known. As her face came away from his, he felt the all-too-familiar feeling that he was falling. As he sank, her face remained smiling. Through his entire journey back, she stared at him from high above. When he opened his eyes, he just laid there. He didn’t move. He didn’t even know how long, but he laid there, staring at the ceiling, feeling a sense of longing that he’d never felt before.

Things progressed more quickly after that. Now that he’d been as vulnerable as he could have been with her, he felt more comfortable. He spoke more often, and it seemed as if she enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers. 

They climbed to the highest peak of a mountain together. They found a thick, icy pond that had no logical reason for existing where it did, but they slipped their way across it anyway. Together. They bathed in a hot spring together, and afterwards they made love for the first time on a bed of grass nearby. He had a terrible feeling that he was going to sink away as soon as it was over, but he didn’t. There was more time. They laid there together, in each other’s embrace, for what felt like hours, and he sunk away only when they both felt that it was right. 

He spent every waking moment thinking about her. He spent every moment asleep with her. She was all that mattered to him. 

He knew it was strange. That it made no sense. That he’d sound like a lunatic trying to explain to anyone that he was in love with a woman that only existed in his dreams. But he didn’t care. He had never felt this way before. It wasn’t as simple as being in love for the first time. It was like he’d broken through to a new dimension. In all that existed, so far as he knew, he had never cared for anything the way that he cared for her. When he thought of her, he didn’t think about why or how. To him, she existed, and that meant everything.

Consequently, waking life had ceased to matter. He spent his days wishing he were still asleep. He’d try to reach her in his daydreams, but to no avail. The life he’d led seemed so dull now. The grass was never as beautiful as it was with his eyes closed. The air smelt terrible, and he could no longer stand the sound of other people’s voices. His friends complained that he was never around anymore, and some of them even showed concern. They called him “pal” or “bud” when they talked, and it really pissed him off. Every day felt longer and every night felt shorter. Summer was coming up, and he couldn’t fathom the amount of daylight he’d have to deal with.

He tried the logical fix. He started with the light stuff – NyQuill, TylenolPM, Benadryll. But those only made him sleep more soundly. They didn’t help him sleep longer. Eventually, neither did Melatonin. Xanax messed with his ability to control the dreams. Even Ambien didn’t do the trick. He, who was once completely in control of the balance between sleep and wakefulness, completely ran out of answers.

He’d asked her one night what happened to her when he was awake.

Trying, but failing, to hide the pain behind her words, she told him, “I wait for you to come back.”

 

Sometimes it rained in their world, but it was never dreary. The rain always felt soft as it fell, and it made everything feel so much more alive. Such as it was on the night they sat, hand-in-hand, dreading the pull of wakefulness that would rip them apart. In the grass next to the brook, they watched droplets of rain create millions of tiny ripples in the water before them. Hypnotized by the rise and fall of each splash, he turned to her.

“What do you think happens when you die?” he asked.

“When I die?”

“No, you know, like the collective ‘you’ – like people. What do you think happens when people die?”

“I don’t know. I think heaven is a cool concept.”

“And hell?”

“Less cool.”

They laughed, and a moment passed before she spoke again.

“I think,” she started, “that it’s just like being asleep.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “Me too.”

He sank back out, but he didn’t care. Not this time.

 

They found him in his bed. He looked almost peaceful. On the nightstand beside his bed sat, simply, an empty bottle of Ambien, an empty bottle of Xanax, and a note. It was short and simple: “I just want to sleep. I’m sorry.”

He knew to look for her by the fountain. He took a seat on the white, marble bench, where he’d waited for her so many times before. He sat, staring at the bushes, and waited for her to emerge. He waited to see the yellow sundress. He waited to tell her that he’d never be pulled away again.

He waited.