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sweet dreams by paul athorne
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Rated "R" by the Author.
the sub-conscience is a powerfull thing. sometimes too powerfull.
Sweet Dreams
by
Paul Athorne
He tasted the cold metal, as the shotgun barrel rested on his tongue. He felt the trigger dig into his thumb as he applied more pressure. Suddenly the trigger mechanism gave up all form of resistance. Ron Chapman awoke, his face lathered in sweat. His wife, Sally switched on the bed-side light. “Another nightmare?” she asked, answering her own question. Ron nodded, his eyes looking straight ahead. Sally sat upright. “You’ve got to see someone about it, love. You haven’t slept for a month now.” “I know,” agreed Ron leaning back on his sweat soaked pillow. “But who?” “I don’t know. A doctor, a psychiatrist…” “A shrink?” “If that’s what it takes, yes. It’s not only you that’s losing sleep you now.” Ron sensed his wife’s initial sympathy had turned to chagrin. “I know,” said Ron apologetically. “I’ll see someone tomorrow.” “Don’t you mean today?” said Sally reaching over to switch off the light. “It’s two-thirty in the morning.” She finished the sentence sardonically. Ron looked up at the ceiling. Darkness suddenly enveloped him. He was reluctant to close his eyes. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he was afraid to close his eyes. After breakfast, Ron phoned his doctor. Luckilly there was a cancellation and he could be seen in an hour.
“Ron Chapman,” said the receptionist. Ron returned a copy of Woman’s Weekly back to a pile of other magazines, all of which focused on the female viewpoint. How come you never see magazines catering for men in waiting rooms? wondered Ron as he knocked on the surgery door. The thought of a roomful of “sick” men flicking through a pile of Razzle and Mayfair brought a smile to his face. He was still smiling when the doctor’s voice invited him in. Doctor Imdad Arshid was a smart, debonair Indian man in his fifties. His greying temples gave him a distinguished look. He sat reading a file. “Take a seat, Mr. Chapman,” said the doctor, not taking his bespectacled eyes from the document. Ron sat down. It had been more than a year since he’d visited the doctor’s. He’d always taken pride in his physical fitness. Only this time it wasn’t his physical, but his mental fitness that was in question. The word mental, became lodged in his head. Doctor Arshid spoke, breaking Ron from his thoughts. “What seems to be the problem?” It was a question that had become a cliché when asked in a doctor’s surgery. “I’m finding it hard to sleep,” answered Ron.
“Insomnia. Right,” replied the doctor, immediately putting pen to paper. “No! It’s not insomnia.” The doctor looked up surprised at his patient’s outburst. “I’ve been having recurrent nightmares,” continued Ron. “Recurrent nightmares?” repeated the Doctor. “Yes. For a month now.” “Is it the same one?” “No. But they all have the same ending.” “Same ending?” said the doctor removing his glasses and fixing Ron with a quizzical stare. “I die.” Said Ron. Silence filled the room for a few seconds. “Have you been under any stress lately? Any…” “No, none.” Interupted Ron. “They just appeared out of the blue.” “I see,” said the doctor, in a way that gave Ron the impression that he didn’t see at all. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you.” Ron looked to the floor despondently. “But I would strongly advise hypnosis.” Ron looked up. It was his turn to give a quizzical stare. “You want me to see a hypnotist?” asked Ron. Thoughts of Paul McKenna and grown men pretending to be chickens suddenly filled his head. “Not a hypnotist. A hynoptherapist,” corrected the doctor. Arshid detected Ron’s ignorance of the subject. “Hypnosis is now classed as a tried and tested medical treatment. It has been used successfully in treating phobias and addictions, like smoking.” Arshid sensed an acceptance from Ron. He opened one of his desk drawers and reached in. He pulled out a notebook and flicked through the pages. After a few seconds he stopped at a page and jotted down a number. “This is a colleague of mine who I’ve recommended to some of my patients,” said Arshid, handing Ron a phone number. “Give him a call, and tell him I’ve sent you.” Ron took the number, thanked the doctor and left. When Ron arrived home, he went straight to the phone. “Oh, hello. I’d like to speak to a Mr. Hague, please… My name’s Chapman, Ron Chapman. I’m wanting to make an appointment.” Ron waited for his call to be put through. “Mr. Hague?… My doctor, Doctor Arshid, has advised me to see you… I’ve been having nightmares… I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for a month… Cancellation?… Tomorrow?… Yes, tomorrow’s great… earlier the better… Two-thirty, right.” Ron scribbled down the address. “Right, see you tomorrow… thanks… ‘Bye.” All Ron had to do now was wait until tomorrow. That meant another night. His eyes were open, but darkness surrounded him. He felt a coarse fabric against his face. His hands were tied behind him, leather straps chafing his wrists. He heard two pairs of footsteps, they sounded as though they were on a hollow platform of some sort. He sensed a presence behind him. Simultaneously he felt his ankles being tied and something being placed over his head and tightening around his neck. Suddenly his throat went dry. His breathing became heavy, and due to the hood in which he found himself in, each breath enveloped his face making it hot and sweaty, almost suffocating him. The presence he sensed earlier, had gone. He was alone. His heart thudded against the silence, racing with each beat. He heard the sound of creaking, the ground abruptly gave way beneath his feet. Blood drained from his body. He screamed. Screamed as loud as he could. The void swallowed him up. A bright light made him wince. He blinked frantically, trying to accustom his eyes to the brightness. “It’s all right, love. It’s just another nightmare.” The soothing voice of his wife allowed Ron to get his bearings. “Thank God you got a cancellation,” said Sally, turning off the light. Darkness.
After a few minutes of hectic panic. Ron found the street on which Hague resided. He pressed the doorbell and looked at his watch. He was almost ten minutes late. Before he could curse himself, a smart middle-aged, slightly balding man opened the door. “Mr. Chapman?” “Er, yes. I hope I’m not too late. The directions I…” “It’s okay, Mr. Chapman. I should have warned you of the new one-way system here. Even I haven’t got used to it yet.” Ron gave a nervous laugh as Hague shown him through to his office. He was invited to take a seat. “Right, Mr. Chapman. You say you’ve been having nightmares. Are they linked in some way?” Ron nodded. Hague began writing in a journal. “What’s the link?” “Death.”
The word made Hague look up. Then he wrote down the word. “Are the nightmares the same?”
“No. Each one is different but with the same ending. I’ve been shot, drowned, beheaded, even guillotined. Last night I was hanged!” Hague noticed that his client was getting a little irate. “All right, Mr. Chapman. Calm down. I’m sure we can sort this out.” Hague put down his pen, stood, walked around his desk then sat on the corner of it. “When exactly do you wake up?” “What do you mean?” asked Ron, puzzled. “Do you actually feel… dead?” The puzzled look remained on Ron’s face. “For instance,” continued Hague. “All the scenarios you’ve mentioned, are of the sudden-death variety.” Still puzzlement. Hague rephrased his initial question. “Do you awake at the split second prior to any pain?”
“Well I don’t feel the pain of death,” answered Ron, finally adding to the conversation. “Like last night. I waited for the rope to jerk and break my neck. It was so real.” “But you awoke before the rope tightened,” said Hague returning to his chair. “Yes. Does that mean anything?” “Perhaps. You say these nightmares started about a month ago.” Ron nodded. “I’d like to put you into an hypnotic state. I think we’ll be able to find something in your sub-consciousness that is the reason for this.” Hague shown Ron into an adjoining room. There was a leather upholstered chair and couch. “Right, Mr. Chapman. If you could take off your coat and shoes and make yourself comfortable on the couch.” Ron laid back. Above him, on the ceiling, was a picture of a spiral. “What I intend to do, Mr. Chapman, is to induce you into an hypnotic sleep. I’ll take you back to before these nightmares occurred. You say you don’t actually feel any pain in these dreams, so what I hope to achieve, is for you to sleep through the nightmare. To come out of the other side as it were.” Ron nodded enthusiastically, though a little hesitant. It meant him facing his demons once more. “Look straight up, Mr. Chapman. Stare into the spiral. Start at the outer edges and follow it in. I’m going to count down from ten to one. When I get to one you’ll have reached the centre of the spiral. Ten… your body is fully relaxed. Nine… feel the weight leaving, first your feet then your legs. Eight… now your arms and shoulders are totally relaxed. Seven… your body is at rest. You feel at one with the world. Six… your breathing is getting slower and slower. Five… your eye lids are beginning to get heavier and heavier. Four… all thoughts have left your mind. Three… you are feeling very tired, very sleepy. Two… your eyes are closed. One… you are asleep. Fast asleep.” Hague’s last few words faded as Ron found himself in the body of a young girl. He was cycling along a country road. Suddenly a car rounded a corner and came up behind him. Through the girl’s eyes, he saw the driver. The driver’s eyes burnt into his. It was then that Ron realised he was looking at himself. The car mounted the kerb and struck the rear wheel of the bicycle. Ron found himself being thrown through the air. He hit the ground awkwardly and felt his neck snap. Memories came flooding back into Ron’s mind. Memories he had locked away, submerged deep in his sub-consciousness over the past month. He discovered now, where the nightmares were coming from. It was his conscience bubbling to the surface, hatching out nightmare after nightmare. He remembered having a few drinks that afternoon. Realizing he was late to pick Sally up from work, he got in the car and sped off. He took a short-cut through the country. He hit a speed ramp as he neared a corner. He lost control. The next thing he saw was something blue passing his windscreen. He stoped the car and got out. There, lying by the roadside was the contorted figure of a young girl. Her blue coat was soaking up blood that was pouring from a deep gash to the forehead. He panicked and drove off. For the past month he must have been in denial. Hiding away the horror in his mind’s recesses. This sudden realization of his problem, prompted Ron to open his eyes. Blackness greeted him. Thinking he was home, he reached out for the bed-side light. Suddenly his hand hit something solid. He tried to move his legs. Again, they too, seemed confined. “A coffin,” he said to himself. “I’m still dreaming. Only this time my nightmare, is that I’ve been buried alive!” Ron didn’t panic. He remembered he’d been hypnotised and that he was not alone. He also remembered what he’d been told. To try and sleep through the nightmare. To come out of the other side. He remained calm and decided to count to himself slowly until he awoke. One… two… three… Sally Chapman wiped away a tear, as she turned from the graveside. She noticed a woman adjacent to her, knelt by a grave, arranging flowers. The headstone bore the name Charlotte Mann, aged six. Tragically taken from us. According to the date, it was exactly a month ago. Meanwhile the counting continued. Thirty-seven… thirty-eight… thirty-nine…
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