Jacqueline Devore analyzes the basis of her ongoing night terrors.
Jacqueline jolted awake, drenched in sweat, her heart beating with the fury of a freight train, fear ripping into her mind like a double-edged sword. Terrified, she scanned her dark bedroom, feeling as thought an attacker was hiding in the shadows, ready to lunge for her and slash her life's blood from her arteries. The books towering in their shelves were silent and uncommunicative. The one dangling fern in the corner hung limply, dropping tiny leaves onto the hard wood floor below. Then, a movement near the window caused her to clutch her heart, but she could not cry out, could not run. She shut her eyes quickly and prayed that if it was her last moment on earth, it would be swift and painless.Then she felt the softest touch against her face from the gentle night breeze that had wafted through a crack in her bedroom window and a single tear slid down her cheek. Slowly, she opened her greenish-brown eyes and steadied her breath as she savored the void of darkness. She was alone, with her books and her singular plant and her...fear. For although there was no assailant in her room, the terror had not ceased; the adrenaline continued to course through her veins making her feel shaky and unnerved. This feeling, though, was not unique; indeed it was quite familiar, for every night at three o'clock this scenario played itself out in greater and greater detail, and every night, she awoke from vivid nightmares of torture with the details becoming more precise. Details such as her inability to escape from the man with the cold eyes peering down at her, analyzing her reactions like a bug under a magnifying glass. Analyzing, then recording every wince, every tear, and every plea for mercy. Sometimes, he would chuckle, and then the sound of his laughter would ring out like that of a demon circling its prey, preparing for the kill.She finally glanced at the small, illuminated clock on the nightstand. It read three minutes after three...only three minutes had passed...three minutes that had felt like an eternity in the lowest rung in Dante's hell. Interminable moments when she had been within the arm's reach of Satan, with his three faces, and his razor sharp mouths of teeth ripping into the flesh of Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius. All the while, Satan's eyes, on his three unholy faces, were held steady on her, eagerly anticipating when he could clamp onto her and tear her into bits of nothingness.She squeezed her eyes shut and closed out this image. There had to be hope, she told herself and clung to this lifesaving thought, for as long as there was life, she reiterated in her mind, there had to be hope. With that solace in mind, she reached foe her trusty pack of cigarettes, tipped it to its side, and pulled out the lucky winner. Her fingers trembled with every movement, and when she struck the match, the flame flickered with iridescent life as she touched it to the tip of her smoke.She leaned against the smooth semi-gloss painted wall behind her bed; it was the only wall not dominated by bookcases, and the only wall painted light blue, the others all dark gray. She slowly savored the taste of tobacco mingling in her mouth before it entered her lungs. As a child she considered her parents' habit of smoking after meals an unhealthy, disgusting addiction. But lately, as her anxiety-provoking dreams persisted, she discovered an odd sense of security in the smoky taste from a freshly lit cigarette. Absentmindedly, Jacqueline placed her smoke in the slot of the ashtray sitting on the nightstand and systematically cracked her knuckles. She started with the thumb on her left hand and worked her way to the little finger. Then she followed the same sequence of joint cracking on her right hand. She was barely aware of the tingling sensation that permeated her fingers, instead she probed deeper into her own thoughts, and she wondered, for the first time, what her dreams would do to her when they were revealed in their entirety.Who was that man with the ice cold blue eyes? Why did he seem to be more than a mere figment of her imagination? Why, in his cruel state, did her seem as familiar as her own beloved father? Why did she feel as though this man had absolute control over her every breath, her every thought? Her line of questioning, considering her training in Experimental Psychology, was not logical to Jacqueline. It was based upon data she could record and analyze statistically. There could be no provable hypothesis written in concrete. Instead, this line of reasoning was based upon a realm beyond her current understanding.Her thoughts were speeding like a runaway locomotive causing her mind to kick into overdrive. In spite of herself, she imagined her brutally murdered body being discovered by a concerned neighbor who checked inside her house after not seeing Jacqueline for numerous days. Next, she envisioned the responding police officers declaring they had never seen such a brutal homicide in all their years on the force. And she knew, despite her overwhelming state of anxiety, that these hypothetical detectives would be leading a futile search for her murderers since the killers would not have human identities. It would take a special detective to find her assailants: a detective who could investigate the world of dreams.It had happened when she was a child, the night terrors, the fears, the inability to express herself to her father who came running to her room, trying to console her. He would wrap his arms around her and hold her against his heart, and there the calming beating would embrace her like the ocean does its child. Her sobs would slow, and she would hear the call of the surf within her father's chest, holding her, loving her.(The remainder of this short story may be read in the downloaded version. Hope you enjoy it. Best Regards From, Sharon)
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To describe a life like the one of "Jacqueline Devore", one needs to be familiar with several scientific subjects; to have a logical and creative mind and the ability to paint with words. To write a story like "Shadows of the Night" one must have all those tools; be a heedful observer, and have a platinum STYLUS to engrave words on sandalwood tablets.
The author of "Shadows of the Night" has the writing ink that bears the scent of creativity, and the style that guarantees immortality.
Segments of this reflection on the dream resonated with my experience of a dream long since laid to rest (I hope). My father was a very troubled soul in life and consequently I caught the tail end of his anger. In my dream, like the woman in this story, he appeared as a loving, smiling man- totally alien. Oddly, I derived comfort from it, and felt the dream aided reconciliation with his memory. Maybe that's why I haven't dreamt of him since. Do you have any thoughts on this?
I was struck by your use of Dante, Satan and Judas within two short sentences - a very striking device for creating outer darkness atmosphere to the story.
I enjoyed reading this. Dreams are fascinating.
Incidentally, like the woman, I started smoking after a 21 year break - I got too close to a suicidal case for my own comfort - forgot principle of detachment - damn!
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