I laid in bed later that night, crying, wishing it’d all been a dream. It was Bentley's fault, the voice - my voice inside my head – said.... Bentley's the one who climbed up on the fence first... Bentley's the one who started running... Bentley's the one who made you chase him... Bentley's the reason Star was running... Bentley... Bentley... Bentley.
I couldn't stop it no matter how hard I tried. I squeezed my eyes shut, pulled the pillow over my head and clasped my hands over my ears... but it didn't stop. It wouldn't stop. It was part of me... or was it entirely me? No it couldn't have been all me! I would never think that way about Bentley. Star is the one who ran off. If anything, it was the other dog's fault for barking and yanking Star's attention away from me.
You can't lie to yourself, my voice said, then finally stopped. Only the sound of my sobs filled the room. Eventually, they dwindled and the room was silent. I breathed in as deep as I could. I listened to the sweet sound of silence and allowed my shoulders to relax, slowly drifting off to sleep...................................
I gasped for air, my body stiffening. One breath and I quit breathing, lying silently still in my bed. I was hot... my lungs felt like there were bricks lying atop them. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling; it happened every time I had The Dream. I could remember having The Dream way back when I was five. The only thing I remembered, I cherished forever in secret.
I sat up in my bed, peeling the sweat-soaked sheets off my bare skin. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor. I scrunched up my toes, wishing my slippers were nearby. The cool air washed over my body and I felt my nipples become erect. I reached for the light switch, my hand running along the wall, my heart racing with the thought that he might be here... watching me. My worry was foolish, for when I turned on the light, I was alone in my bedroom.
I let out a sigh of relief and shook my head at my childish notions. I ran my hands along my chilly arms, feeling the warm tingles all down my spine. I reached for my fluffy red rope hanging on my desk chair, pulling it tightly around my body, snuggling into it. I looked around my room; the walls were covered with taped on sketches I'd drawn. I drew anything that popped into my head, ranging from fairies, to roses, circus ringleaders, vampires, dusty planes, sunny fields.
The clock blinked 12:00, on and off… on and off… red numbers glowing in the dimly lit room; I'd only turned on my reading lamp. The power must have gone out. I searched around for my wristwatch, trying to remember where I'd taken it off before I went to sleep. Eventually, I found it sitting atop my dresser. It read 4:58. I pulled up the blinds to reveal the new-moon night, darkest before dawn, full of pitch-black nothingness. Shivering, I pulled the blinds back down again and sat at my desk.
There would be no going back to sleep tonight... there never was after The Dream. I could see him so clearly... the only thing I remember from any of the dreams was the man who frequented them. I pulled out my sketchbook with the finest paper inside, my black coal pencils, my very best eraser, and started with a line. That's all it took, a simple line, and then the picture gained control of itself... twisting and turning, deviously winding through the page, forming the man in my mind... The Man in the Dream.
When I paused to look at it he smiled back at me, his eyes glowing with contempt... I wasn't finished, I had to perfect it... perfect him... capture him in the way that he so richly deserved. So, I set the piece of paper back on the desk, picked up the eraser, and erased, then drew new lines, his pure essence seeping into the page.
This time when I finished, it was perfect... my best sketch yet. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a folder from under the false bottom of the drawer, inside the secret compartment that would only open if one applied the right amount of pressure. It was hidden by a stack of other notebooks and folders. It slipped from my hands and pictures of The Man from The Dream dropped onto the floor. There must have been at least one-hundred that I'd drawn over the years. After all, I'd had so many dreams of him... felt so many compulsions to sketch him, and each new one only got better and better.
