Day Dream (dreamnotfound)

Day 3

Cold, dark, wet.

George knew this place—the end of an endless corridor, wrought without the penance of a seemingly infinite chase. He was sinking; the feeling as distantly familiar as it was alarming, his recollection to the sensation fuzzy at the edges like warped deja vu.

Though all consuming, it still felt as if the unidentifiable liquid was wrapping around him in tendrils, snaking around his mouth and retreating minutely when George gnashed his teeth with a scream that lacked the vibrato to carry. It was persistent, dragging him down, down, down, until George couldn't hold his breath a moment more and it flooded down his throat with the ferocity of a carnivore weaned on milk and honey. It hurt—a relentless burning that pierced George's lungs and tore his esophagus to shreds—but time can only pass so slow.

A nightmare; George knew this place because he had been there before. Still, something was different, something was wrong. He knew this place but not this pain, and it was only with the dawning of lucidity that George recalled the faintest hints of whiplash; the feeling of being, in a singular sense of the word, saved. The vague memory planted a sickly sensation in his stomach, real and starkly tangible next to the pain of being suffocated within the confines of his skull.

Dream. Dream had been there before.

George tried to struggle against the liquid—black and slick in the likeness of oil; arcid and viscous as tar. The tears that gathered against his lashes stuck there and formed pockets of salt around his eyes; that too a sensation that seemed impossibly familiar.

He wanted to wake up.

—————————

He did.

George awoke as if consciousness had grabbed him by the ankles: gracelessly, in a flurry of sudden panic. Each breath he took was ragged, dragged kicking and screaming from lungs that still felt as if they were collapsing—a lingering presentiment that clung to his skin like cold to a corpse.

The bed beneath him was bare, thin sheets torn away from tucked corners and pillows cast askew across the carpeted floor of a bedroom that persisted in its unfamiliarity. George itched in that moment to be home, wanting to sink back into sheets that were his own with the sound of an ancient air conditioner lulling him into a state of rest. He wanted to open his phone and text Dream something stupid; get something equally stupid in response without the possibility of his friend knowing something was wrong. Most of all, he wanted to be asleep.

What a complicated thing that was becoming.

George twisted his sweaty fingers into a knot that cracked and popped at each joint, the strain of small tendons airing just on the edge of pain. The discomfort was grounding, providing an important distinction between reality and his nightmares that allowed George the opportunity to separate himself from them. His nightmares weren't real. That was good. Still, It didn't keep shadows from crawling closer. It didn't dull the nausea churning in his gut.

It didn't make him feel safe.

~

Sleeping in the living room of his own apartment felt odd, if only because it wasn't actually a place he spent a considerable amount of time. With his phone and computer constantly handy, Clay didn't often find himself relaxing into his discount sofa with the intention of simply sitting to watch TV. It was especially strange now, when pale moonlight from his balcony wrapped the room in a faint silver; amplifying shadows more than alleviating them. Patches was asleep on the carpet beside him, surprising, since he wasn't entirely sure the cat had been there when he settled in to sleep.