A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Chapter 1: Of dystopia

In the pit of my stomach, I feel incredible dread. We are in a tunnel, inside a mansion or a castle, I am not sure. I have only seen this building's exterior briefly. And I'm not even sure when I saw it.

I say 'we' as if I am with someone, but I think I am my own ally, I'm all alone.

There I am crouching like a baby, as these giant figures clad in metal are trying to murder me.

I feel like I am in a dystopian world. But I am certain that I'm on the good side of trying to attain utopia.

The giant figures scare me. They have capes around their shoulders and are clad head-to-toe in an armor suit. But that isn't all, it is as if someone has poured liquid iron over them, so everything they wear, all that they are, it's metal. They are creatures made of black melded metal. Spikes jut out of their obsidian heads, which have thin white slits for eyes.

As one of the giant creatures raises an ominous ax to sever my head from my body, my reflexes kick in.

I am running through tunnels cutting right and quickly left, wherever my legs think refuge exists. Suddenly, I find myself out in the open. I gulp down fresh air as a pitch black humid dawn greets me. I look around.

From what I can tell, there aren't any creatures trying to kill me. I realize I am outside the entrance of a dark castle...

* * *

My eyes spring open. I check my breathing, it's steady. I am in my bedroom. Deep purple curtains drawn close unwelcome the sunrays outside the windows. I feel cozy under the blankets, my bed has the perfect amount of softness at the moment.

I realize I was dreaming. Was that a nightmare? I wonder to myself. My brain immediately decides to interpret the occurrences in my dream-more-like-nightmare. It concludes the following: (i) I enjoyed this dreamy nightmare adventure, (ii) I have been reading way too many dystopian novels, and (iii) I'd like to go back to this dream. I need closure. I must find out what happens next! I close my eyes and try to sneak back into the REM stage I rudely awakened from.

Nothing happens. I lay in my bed stupidly and then reach for my phone, which sits on my bedside table. Its center blinks 8:00 am.

Tonight, my Dad and I are going out for dinner. I am leaving for my first year at university this fall, to study History. We're going to celebrate this new upcoming phase in my life. Oh also, I'm Oxford-bound.

Apparently, it's a big deal to get accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the world. The moment I tore open my acceptance letter, I ran over to my Dad, who was in his usual place at home: at the desk in his study.

One quick glance and as soon as his eyes picked up on the word 'accepted' in the letter, he declared in his booming voice, "Jemma love, I always told you, didn't I? You are destined for amazing things!" Then, he bear-hugged me while simultaneously whispering a litany of congratulations in my ear.

My father, Lionel is an ordinary guy, who works from home on his gemstone business. That's how I got my name — Jemmalyn. It means gemstone in an ancient language that I can never recall.

It's just me and him. Lionel with his gray-mostly-black hair, who goes running every morning. I don't have his icy but lively blue eyes, I share my mother's dark mysterious brown ones.

I remember my mother vaguely. She disappeared the year I turned three. My father used to tell me she was working as an archaeologist in a foreign land, like Egypt or South Africa, I don't really remember. As years went by, she never returned home from her exotic work trips. She never called or emailed us. And as I grew older, Dad and I just stopped talking about her altogether.

My mother is a ghost in our house. There are pictures of her with me, and of her with my father around the house. She has long dark hair down to her waist and looks happy in them. What I find strange is that she's wearing the same outfit in all the pictures.

It's as though one year before she left, Dad intuitively guessed she wasn't going to be part of our lives for long. So he took several pictures of us that day, got them framed and hung them up all over the house. She haunts every corner of our house and we pretend she doesn't exist. As human beings, we can be stubborn about some things — like living in denial for long periods of time.

I haven't ruled out the possibility that my mother died a long time ago. And Dad was perhaps too upset to tell me the truth while I was still young.

But I am eighteen now and it honestly doesn't bother me anymore. I like it as it is — just me and my Dad.