Wednesday, February 06, 2008

A Chance to Dream:

I lie in bed holding my breath, waiting for that sound I deeply dread. Outside the room a bottle falls and rolls across the floor. I am safe, he will not wake tonight. I breathe again, slowly allowing for my muscles to relax. I permit myself to falter, and dream. Dreams are a risky escape, a reality without the limitations and boundaries of the current. They are the great equalisers among men. Where a person can become anything just by simply wishing it. I like dreams; I like to pretend I’m somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where, as long as its not here. I close my eyes and the room disappears, melting away the worries of the day. When I open them again I find I am enclosed by a clear plastic box. I like this dream, I have had it many time before. From my box I watch the world pass by. It does not notice me, and I do not care. I watch the chaos of uncertainty that plagues this world and feel glad I am in my box. I am safe. I wish this dream would last for ever, but it never does.


In a dream there is always a certain amount of control one has; the ability to stop an event they do not like by simply waking up. Sometimes I wonder why life can’t be like this. Why can’t I just wake up? My life in essence is a reoccurring nightmare, a reality more fitting of a fictitious creation. So that is how I treat it. I block it out hoping that it will someday pass, but it never does. I am a prisoner, bound by my circumstances, relinquished of my will. A condemned victim, persecuted for simply being. As time passed on I have noticed a yearning within myself. A craving for a release from the pains of this world into the reality of the dream.


A dream creates a safe environment that cannot be matched by anything in this world. Where a consequence is but a word, thrown around defying its very definition. You cannot be hurt in a dream, there is no sorrow, there is no pain.


I feel myself slipping away from the dream. I can’t go back, I mustn’t go back. My surroundings start to blend together. I desperately try to cling to the dream, but my futile attempts fail. I am awake.


Morning breaks as the downing of a new day slowly brings me back to reality. Movement outside the room tells me he has woken too. A loud crack of a leather belt on wood is a prologue to the up coming events of the day. I sit up slowly and listen to the sound of rain falling on nearby rooftops. The calming echo of splashing water prepares me for what I must do next. Outside the room he yells my name, I do not listen. I pick up a sheet, rap it around my neck and start to pull. It digs into my throat and I pull harder, I cannot stop now. I can not breathe and I am starting to get dizzy, but it is worth it. To dream, one last time, to die.


Statement of intention: This story was written as a first person narrative by a thirteen year old with knowledge beyond his years. The perspicacity of the child is a representation of the ultimate loss of possible potential when someone commits suicide.

2 Misguided mentions... :

  1. iNDIE-jUNKER said...

    it seemed like i could relate , until you brought in the last paragraph of course, since i myself, have tried but couldnt not go through with it. i couldnt do it now either.

    thank you. i really enjoyed this paul. personally, i think you have a true talent on your hands. use it.

  2. Luke said...

    Wow, you do tend to write dark stuff when writing fiction don't you! I enjoyed (perhaps not the right word to use on such a somber story - but you get what I mean) it muchly. Was worth the wait between posts. :p

    PS. Also, enjoyed that you know how to spell perspicacity, but spelt floor as flour. :p