Nightmares
He stood above her panting with excitement, watching as her cheeks lost their color. Beneath her head a pool formed upon which rose petals floated. The sharp coppery scent of blood mixed with the lavender from the still burning candles. He smiled in satisfaction to himself, pleased to have found the perfection he craved.
Eric Stone woke in shock, his body drenched in sweat. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked dully back at him, five in the morning. It was early enough that even the sun dared not peak above the horizon. His body ached; even after sleep, he still felt exhausted. Why had it all felt so real? The image of the mutilated women burned into Stone’s retinas, causing his stomach to churn.
The pieces of his dream formed into an ever expanding mosaic of horror to his waking mind. She had fascinated him like a mouse fascinated a cat. In doing so she had sealed her fate; she was prey. He broke into her apartment and decorated it much like one would to surprise a lover. Then he lay in wait. He’d felt the anticipation of waiting as it built, savoring every moment of it. The harsh taste of a menthol cigarette still seemed to linger in the back of his throat, but Stone didn’t smoke. It was in anticipation of the chaotic beauty that he remembered lighting a cigarette in her bathroom. He recalled the lighting it in the bathroom, to hide the smell. He didn’t want to alarm her with such a foreign smell before he could take her. Then she arrived. His knife slammed into the base of her spine, paralyzing her. She fell to the ground like a rag doll, agonizing terror caught in her throat. Than he was on top of her tracing her collar bone with the knife tip, crimson beads forming as it passed. Her eyes stared up at him, and in them her soul cried in shock and fear.
The most compelling part of dream was not the murder that took place, no matter how much it twisted his stomach, but the reflection he saw in the bathroom mirror. In this dream Eric Stone wasn’t himself. Deep blue eyes stared back at him in defiance of his simple brown eyes. The facial hair absent on his own face was in full bloom and peppered white, framing a face creased with age.
The unease of what he dreamt finally overcame Stone, and he rushed to the bathroom splattering vomit in his toilet. He was exhausted; the stress and exertion of vomiting adding another layer to his weariness.
Most nights Stone slipped into dreamless sleep. Yet on increasing occasions he found himself mutilating some poor woman. He could feel her skin as he raped and killed her. He could feel the terror in her flesh. His senses felt sharpened in these dreams, as he subconsciously catalogued sights and smells. Throughout these dreams there was one constant, the face that stared back at him, the face not his own.
It was near the end of the first month since Stone had been haunted by these specters of reality. He felt weary and uncertain, unsure whether he was awake or dreaming. He cowered back when sharing a room with women, for fear of what savagery and violence he may visit upon them. Family and friends, what little he had, began to notice the change in his behavior. They banded together, hoping to intervene, hoping to elicit change, to bring back the man they once knew.....
In his exhaustion Stone fell asleep during one such intervention. He fought back like a cornered animal. Words could not appease the crowd that had in his mind gathered to torment him; words were but insignificant in the scheme of things. He lashed out with such violence that he was unsure if any still breathed. The sharp scent of blood mixed with the rancid fumes of viscera hit his nose. Stone bent forward and vomited; and woke up.
“...Please Eric, tell us what’s going on. We love you, and only want to help you...” It was female. By the texture of the sound, he knew it to be his aunt. Why did the people even bother?
“Just go away.” His voice was nothing more than a whisper, tears stung his eyes. When did he begin to cry? In the back of his mind, he was still confused. “You don’t see their faces. You don’t feel their cold and lifeless skin. And you don’t smell the blood.” He stared off at wall, watching the color drain to a dull grey.
“I can’t even separate my dreams from reality anymore...” Stone stared at the blank faces of his friends and family. Abruptly they began to laugh at him, the sound of it echoing through his head. With great need he stood and rushed to the door, hoping to escape the laughter now coursing through his mind. He needed to be free of it, and fast. He needed to be rid of the hateful sound of that laughter.
Again Stone awoke. He was losing himself. Everything felt so chaotic and surreal. His arms were bound, and he was flat on his back. A door opened, and he could feel the light shift around him as shadows wandered across his body.
“Well Eric, I’m sorry to see you here. I had hoped it wouldn’t have progressed this far.” It was the voice of an older male. Stone’s eyes rolled up, staring at the doctor. They wouldn’t focus, leaving the world a blob of color. The man continued to speak in soothing tones. “Do you know where you are Eric?” Stone shook his head, confused by the restraints and sensations and the disruption to his vision. Panic crept through the recesses of his mind, forcing its way to the front of his thoughts. He pushed against the restraints on his arms and legs. This wasn’t happening to him; this had to be a dream.
“Calm down Eric. There is no need to panic. My name is Doctor Foster; I was initially helping your family with the intervention. You are now under my care here at the Holy Forest Mental Health Facilities. Do you know why you are here?” The voice held a rhythmic and soothing cadence, as well as a hint of familiarity that Stone couldn’t quite put his finger on. He stared upwards blankly at the ceiling, his eyes still out focus.
“No Doc, I don’t know why I’m here…” Stone’s voice trailed off, sounding hollow to him. “But I would like to leave now, thank you. So if you’ll just let me go.”
“I’m sorry Eric, but we can’t do that. You assaulted your family, and unfortunately a few of them ended up in the hospital. As far as the state is concerned, you are a danger to not only yourself but others as well. You’re sick Eric. You need help.” Stone screamed at the doc, fighting against his restraints. He ached for his freedom so suddenly stolen from him. A shot of pain, then a wave of obscurity washed over Stone, leaving him numb and apathetic.
The days passed on, one running into another. Stone shuffled between his room and the main recreational area with the other patients at Holy Forest. Where he was at any one time was of no consequence to him. The people who visited him were strangers, but left him with painful feelings of recognition fighting at the boundaries of his hazy consciousness. The results of the experimental anti-psychotics were apparent in his attitude. To Stone there was no good, no bad. He lived in a world of fog.
As the medication began to wear off, Stone would feel briefs moments of lucidity. The situation would become clear, the people would begin to take recognizable and individual shapes, the world itself would erupt in colors not seen in what felt like years. As he regained his consciousness, the pill cart would come by, and someone in a white coat would force him to ingest the medication all over again, moving Stone back into his trance like state.
Even when lost to reality, there was one constant: his dreams. While he may have felt lost when awake, shrouded in his apathy, at night Stone dreamt. The dreams were real. The women were real: every touch, every tender kiss, and every breath up to their last. The face not his own, remained constant in these dreams. The voice spoke with such excitement until the killing started, than it took on a pacifying cadence. It was as if the man could talk these women into not accepting, but wanting their deaths.
As Stone woke, the clarity of the dreams slipped like water through his fingers and he returned to mind numbing apathy. The days continued to flow by, blending together like one never ending daze, sporadically broken up by dreams of death. It was unnerving for Stone to experience reality in his sleep, and a more surreal experience when awake.
“Eric, I asked you a question. I would appreciate it if you would answer the questions.” It was that voice, which could only belong to Doctor Foster. “Tell me about the girls Eric. Tell me why you killed them.”
“What girls? I didn’t kill any girls!”
“I’m sorry Eric, but that is too difficult to believe otherwise. Your psychosis has manifested the murders into your mind for the purpose of making you relive them. You’re subconscious is punishing you, Eric. Now please, tell me about the girls.”
“I didn’t kill any girls! I don’t know what the hell you are talking about! What happens in my dreams isn’t real. Doc, you said I was sick and you’re right, but I’m not a murderer!”
“Eric, I am growing tired of your games. You will tell me what you know.” Doctor Foster reached for the phone on his desk. “Hello? Yes, I need another dose for Eric now. Send some orderlies too, he may get violent.”
“I only know that I didn’t kill them, but I could still feel it; the blood, covering me.” Stone’s voice took on a more passive tone. He accepted that he would never be free again as he stared off at the wall, trying to quell the resurgence of images from his dreams. It was a reality he wished so hard to live without.
His session with Doctor Foster was about through when the effects of his medication began to wear off. It was like crashing through a veil. One moment Stone was confined to a world of no color, no shape, just flat abstract realities, and the next he was alive. Stone’s eyes began to focus, taking in the worn tile floor, a subtle sea foam green. The walls around him changed from gray to a more off white, with stains and discoloration running along the intersection between tile and wall. He saw Doctor fosters shoes, looking to be very high class. They appeared to be custom made, having no discernible brand or recognizable sole. The neatly pressed khakis gave way to white lab coat and large hands holding a worn and old clip board, with a piece of string hanging down limply absent its pen. Stone’s eyes traveled up until his met Doctor Foster’s.
Recognition seared through Stone’s brain as he gazed into the Doctor’s piercing gray eyes. This was the face that was not his. This was the face from his dreams.
