Entwined in This Infinity

10. Dreamcatcher - Jimmy

You don’t know what you’ve become, but you think you’re a reaper. Like a – a dream reaper. That makes it sound real badass. Hell yeah.

It’s really not though. “Dream reaper” sounds like a sweet occupation to have, putting you right up there with those special enchanters who have literal magic imbued in their veins or whatever. It gives off the air of importance and danger.

In actuality, it sucked. That’s pretty much it. This whole awakening sucks, and it would be a thousand times better if you could go back to a normal old human with boring human non-powers. You want to sleep again. Really, that’s what had to be the most heartbreaking thing, the lack of sleep.

You guess you slept, technically, but it was no longer an off switch. It wasn’t an escape anymore, where all the lights get turned down and you’re dead to the world for half a day. It’s become this . . . you don’t know what to call it.

 A turning?

It’s like . . . a transformation. When you shut your eyes, you’re Jimmy Henrickson, immature teen boy flunking half his classes. But when you drift off into what’s supposed to be sleep, you jerk awake as some sort of spirit, hovering beside your bed in black clothes with a hefty chest filled with jars in your hands.

You can see yourself “sleeping,” mouth shut and dark circles under your eyes that weren’t there before this whole deal. You look dead, lying there still and breathing imperceptibly.

So you’re left there. Hovering. Endowed with the ability to fly, airy and a bit difficult to maneuver. Holding a big-ass chest made of dark cherry wood.

Somehow, you know exactly what to do.

There’s a list burned into your mind every night, fifty or so names of a bunch of people in your town. It’s a random selection, or that’s what it looks like at least, most of them people you’ve never met. Thinking about the name creates an invisible homing beacon in the distance. Following it is second nature, so easy it was surprising when you automatically began floating towards your first target on that introductory day.

It’s all easy, some instinct that’s buried deep in your bones. Once you find your mark, their dream is sitting there, hanging above their head, a cloud broadcasting whatever weird imagining their brain has concocted. Then you get a jar out and scoop it up. Like catching a butterfly.

It pushes at its confines, pictures swirling into a fit for a moment before settling. Its glow is soft and soulful like a nightlight.

You don’t know what happens to the chest once you’re finished collecting all the dreams. It disappears as soon as you put the final container into it and shut the lid, and then you snap awake in your abandoned bed. At four a.m.

It’s surreal.

After a month, you’re aware of all the regulars who appear on the list.

Iris Quill is always on the list, always, which you learn is totally justified. The stuff that goes on in her head is insane and interesting, often forcing you to pause and wait a minute or two before collecting her dream just to watch the craziness going on in there.

Another regular is this dude, Octavius Tresler, another teenaged kid who you think might be in your grade level. His dreams are of the creepy and crawly variety, a lot of flat colors and ghastly creatures that send a shiver down your back. You snap up his dreams as soon as you arrive, but you can’t help but stare at him for a while afterwards. He lies like the body back in your bed, face slack and his hands clasped on his stomach. Never moves, never lies any differently. He is as creepy as the dreams he has, and you end up shivering once again.

You are acquainted with countless disturbing images (and people) in your new occupation. If you could sleep, you would no doubt have nightmares. Bathing in the gore of others will do that to you.