If you enjoy these stories, consider donating to Nifty to help keep the site running. Even a small donation of $5 from each reader can make a big difference. Visit the new Nifty Donation page or go to https://donate.nifty.org/ to contribute.
. . . . . . .
A/N: English is not my first language, and I write stories to improve my skills. If you notice any grammatical errors, please let me know so I can correcte them and make sure I don't repeat them in the next chapters. Comments and constructive feedback on the story are also appreciated.
- Thoughts will be indicated by ' ' - I'll use *** to distinguish between dream sequences and the real world
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to real people and places is pure coincidental.
Story Summary:
Conrad Meyer, a successful lawyer living in the city, is haunted every night by the same dream. In it, he's taken back to a past life where he sees a young man being killed. One day, while visiting a small town, Conrad meets the exact man he sees in his dreams. To his shock, the man looks terrified and runs away. Now Conrad needs to find out who this man is and why he promised to love him forever in the dream.
... . ...
chap. I
It's late afternoon and it's raining lightly. That's the first thing I notice. But the little droplets of rain don't stop my eyes from following the human movements in front of me. And from where I'm standing, I see 'him'.
He's wearing only a dirty, loosely fitted grey jumpsuit, barely held together by rough stitching. Bare feet. Shaved head. Young looking face. I guess him not to be more than twenty years old. Dark brown skin. On his wrists, hands, and ankles, the marks of torture. Wounds on the feet. Bruises from beatings. Dried blood on the face that very slowly gets washed away by the rain.
The eyes. That what catches my attention the most. The shine in his eyes. Dark brown. As if they hold a strength from an unknown place. Surprisingly, they remain alive, as if illuminated by an inner light. Fixed on his captors. Despite being a prisoner, he seems superior to everything and everyone. The contempt is evident. Steady, bright, his eyes reinforce the expression on his face. They show a certainty and determination that hypnotize me. With his head held high, he challenges the people around him. There's a hidden truth behind that look.
Some soldiers gather to see the grand spectacle. They cheer. They talk. I manage to catch a few words. It's a strange language that, to my surprise, I can understand. Thus, I find out what my eyes already know. The young man is from an enemy nation. He was captured, tortured and now condemned to be executed.
With difficulty, two soldiers contain a young man. Blonde, slightly curly hair. wearing a dress I can only describe as dated - Something I rarely see people wearing nowadays. She looks a bit older than the prisoner. Face wet from the rain and tears. Muscles tense, like a beast ready to attack.
I become aware of myself. It's me. But at the same time, it's not. I look at my hands. They are covered by brown leather gloves.
Where am I?
It was the courtyard of some grey tall building. Where I stand, a type of pergola shields me from the rain. From here I have a clear view of the prisoner being carried.
My throat hurts. I feel suffocated. I want to shout, but I can't. I want to move, but I feel paralyzed. A wave of helplessness washes over me. I can't bear to witness what's about to happen.
I want to understand who I am, why I'm here. My face, what is it like? There's no mirrors to see my own features. I observe my clothes. I'm wearing some sort of olive green military uniform. Over the tunic jacket, a dark leather belt cinches my waist, holding a sidearm in a holster that rests just above my hip. My trousers, are neatly tucked into polished black boots that reaches halfway up my calves. I feel a weight on my head. I raise my hands. I touch some kind of cap with an emblem on it. A few medals and ribbons decorate my chest.
Very close to me, stands a man, almost the size as me, wearing a similar uniform, minus the cap. He looks my age. His jet black hair is meticulously slicked back, with every strand perfectly in place, giving him a haughty appearance. Thin lips. Severe features. Even so, he has a certain beauty. I fix my gaze on him. He looks so familiar but I can't remember where's I've seen this face before. He turns to me and gives me a slight smile of satisfaction? Of victory?
Someone shouts bringing me out of my reverie. The young man was pushed by one of the soldiers. Even so, he remains standing. He walks, still with his head held high. I feel an urge to confront the soldiers. To save the prisoner. To take him somewhere far away. However, I don't move. I watch his proud walk towards the area he will stand and be killed.
Immobile. To my horror, I remain immobile. My heart seems to want to leap out of my chest. Yet, I stay here. No moving. Ashamed of myself. Of my cowardice. I'm sure it'll be impossible to confront the soldiers by myself. So I don't move.
I feel the gaze of the man next to me. He raises her chin, satisfied. He approves the execution. More than that, he seems triumphant. Several soldiers look at us with respect, admiration and envy.
My thoughts wander. But my eyes remain fixed on the prisoner, observing his determined walk, his penetrating gaze. Suddenly the truth hits me like lightning. I love him! Yes, that's it! I want to embrace him. To kiss him. To take him far away from here, safe from his executioners, and maybe admire the moon and the stars together, as lovers do. In the deepest silence, just letting myself be enveloped by the pleasure of his presence.
It's just a wish, a daydream, quickly passing through me like a gust of wind. I become aware of reality again. I wish I had the strength of worlds to save him. But I felt weak, drowned in my own fear, in cowardice. And thus, I remain silent.
I lower my eyes. I can't look at him without a great shame invading me. Despite the soft cold breeze, I feel warm. I feel my clothes heavy.
Someone screams.
The blonde woman attempted to fight one of the soldiers but she's quickly overpowered and restrained.
The prisoner stands in a grassy area in front of a broken wall. I see him breathing heavy before turning around with a smile aimed to the woman, who starts to cry, loudly.
The firing squad raise their rifles. Ready to fire.
I feel a thud in my heart.
In few moments, it will be too late.
Desperation makes me overcome my cowardice. I try a step forward, but the man next to me puts a hand firmly on my shoulder preventing another movement. The blood pounds in my head. I bend down to hide my tears. My gesture lasts only a few seconds. I feel the prisoner's gaze fixed on me, as solid as the touch of a person. He stares at me. His smile is gone, being replaced by an expression of someone who condemns.
Our gazes cross. At this moment, real-time doesn't exist. Our eyes remain fixed on each other. There seems to be nothing else around. We are above the dimension of time, paralyzed by the message that only the eyes of the soul can exchange. It's a moment, just a moment, a magical moment like eternity, which happens rarely in one's life.
"Goodbye," I say in my heart. My eyes remain fixed on his. Now they seem blurry. Tears? They can't fall. No. His remain dry. The dryness of the truly brave.
His gaze is intense, but strangely unmoving. I hear the command to fire. And before the first bullet hits his body, he whispers a few words. Impossible to decipher them. He's too far for me to hear them, but I'm sure: they are directed at me. I feel a jolt. What did he say?
In agony, I watch the firing squad opening fire. Blood sprays from his chest, head, arms and legs, painting the wall behind him crimson as his limbs convulse uncontrollably, before his lifeless body hits the ground. And at this moment I make a promise in my heart. Word by word, inscribed in my soul.
"I will forever love you!"
I jolt wide awake, overwhelmed by a terrible anxiety. The same dream again! Clear and detailed images. The face of the young man shot dead has become all too familiar. I could probably recognize him if he was real and not just a character haunting my nights. But of course, it's just a dream. A fantasy filling my mind. It makes no sense that this nightmare, full of suffering, invades my nights so frequently when my life is going so well.
Since childhood, my sleep has always been restless. I would wake up screaming words in a language I didn't understand. Then, it would take ages to fall back asleep, afraid to close my eyes and return to that terrifying world. The dreams only stopped once I was 18.
But now, the same dream repeats with frightening regularity, as if there's an urgent message I need to understand. Always the same. Always the same man being executed.
'There's no point in trying to go back to sleep,' I decide, getting out of bed.
My body aches. All the tension from the dream is still trapped in my muscles. I have an overwhelming urge to cry, which is weird too. I'm not one to cry easily. As a boy, I was taught that men don't cry. I learned to hide my emotions, to keep them as secrets, ashamed of them.
I grew older, and still kept them hidden! I seethe inside, but on the outside, I keep it together. There are so many times I want to scream, to say something back, but I keep it all in. I smile. I pretend everything is fine. I can't stand showing weakness. I only cried once -- when my father passed away. I can't remember another time.
I glance at the clock. It's 3am. I head straight for the shower. Yes, long showers always make me feel better. And at peace. I step in and turn on the water. I let the pain from the dream wash down the drain.
Once done, I dry off without rushing. As I look myself in the mirror, I see a well-fit but tired-looking blond man staring back at me. He's in his mid thirties, with a strong, chiseled jawline and a sprinkling of freckles across his face. His short hair is still damp from the shower, and the blue eyes that meet mine are adorned with dark circles from the too many sleepless nights because of the the repetitive dream.
"There must be a reason why I'm having the same dream so many times," I think to myself as I put on a pair of boxers and a cotton t-shirt. The early winter mornings are still chilly.
I go back to my bedroom and grab the water bottle I always have in the nightstand. I walk to the balcony and sit on one of two chairs there.
The sky is still dark. The streetlights are still on. I glance at the apartment complex across the street. Pitch black. Certainly, no one there is suffering from insomnia or nightmares -- or recurring dreams.
I take a sip of water and let my thoughts wonder. My life has never been as comfortable as it is now.
I come from a poor family. Although it's not a burden, it's there, lurking, reminding me of life's hardships. The long showers are remnants of those memories. A trauma from childhood. My parents' house has only one bathroom. We were a family of four and we all had things to do in the morning. My parents had to work and my sister and I had to go to school. It was chaos every day, and no privacy whatsoever. Everything needed to be done in a hurry.
I let out a sigh remembering how things were. Some mornings, my sister would have the bright idea to do her makeup and hair in the bathroom. I don't know how many times I got late to school because of her.
I take another sip of water and let my eyes focusing on the silhouettes of the buildings. Each one different, with its own shape. How many stories each of those buildings hold? Maybe someone is also sitting on their balcony, remembering their childhood.
I stay on the balcony for the rest of the night. The skyline, outlined by the city's towering buildings, calms me. I fall asleep, without realizing it. When I wake up, for a moment I don't know where I am. I almost scream, afraid of having that same dream again, of being trapped in its webs for eternity. Wearing that military uniform. In another time. The anguish of living in a past where a young man is being killed grips my chest.
The sun is already rising, weak and warm. I can see it between two buildings. A sense of relief washes over me. I feel better realizing that I live in a modern massive city, in the 21st century.
"I need to talk to someone. Talk about this dream that haunts me night after night. About the anguish it brings me," I tell myself.
I know full well I should've sought professional help long ago. But the idea terrifies me. Book a session with a therapist? What if they say I have some type of mental illness? What if it's something far more serious than just a dream? I read somewhere that confusing dreams with reality is a sign of oneirophrenia, dementia and even schizophrenia. Yea, I prefer to believe I don't have any of these.
'Mentally ill people oftentimes don't know they are mentally ill. Maybe that's my case.' I think, laughing. Then I reassure myself, 'No, no! I'm sane...'
Even so, I'm terrified to talk about it. Not just with a therapist, but with anyone. In the dream, everything feels so real. As real as being alive, sitting on my balcony. How can I explain this feeling? What will people think if they hear me? I'm a lawyer for fuck's sake. I work with reality. My firm represents big companies. What will a client say? Or my partners, if they know that the emotions my dreams stir often blend with my everyday feelings. More importantly, what will they think if I tell them that the young man that was executed feel as real to me as any flesh-and-blood person in the real world?
Yes, I know he doesn't exist. It's impossible. Yet, despite knowing this, I have this deep desire to know him. To talk to him. Above all, to stop him from being killed. It's an illogical desire. How can I bring someone from a dream into reality?
Rationally, I know it's impossible. Still, whenever I think of him, I feel a strange emotion. A deep urge to know who he is, why he had such a cruel fate.
Daylight finally breaks. I slowly get up from the chair, as if a weight is pressing down on my shoulders. I lean on the balcony railing and watch the tree-lined street. I couldn't live in a better place! A quiet neighborhood in the best part of city. The century-old trees house birds of many species. At this moment, they are singing as if to greet the new day.
My feelings are so out of sync with the peaceful scene in front of me. A new day is starting, yet I'm still trapped in a dream that took me back to the past, to the brutality that haunted my night.
I leave the balcony and the first rays of sunlight behind. I need to start my Monday off right.
I go to the kitchen, opened to the living room. I live alone in a spacious apartment, originally with four rooms. When I bought it, I had the architect knock down all the walls. Now I have a giant living room, one bedroom, and an office. Contemporary furniture. Black sofas, black tables, dark grey walls --everything so dark that it almost seems uncreative. But the interior designer assured me it was the height of good taste. The only color comes from a few paintings he also picked out. Sometimes I feel like I'm living in one of those house decor magazines my mother always had around. An apartment with no identity. No pictures, personal objects, or souvenirs. That was put together just for the magazine or ad pictures.
'But isn't this what you always wanted?' a voice whispers in my head.
Yes, that's what I thought I always wanted. Every time I looked at those apartments on TV or magazines I would tell myself that would work as I hard as I could so I could afford to live in one of those places.
Today, when I look at the elegant apartment, I miss the warmth of human connection. Despite the hardships, places and people were friendlier in my childhood.
I used to go to school, play with friends, do my homework. Having my sister and her friends use me as their doll. I would let them do my nails and even make up. A happy moment that only lasted until my mother was back home and the atmosphere would turn gloomy. During dinner I would spent most the time daydreaming while I ate. Daydreaming of the future. My future. Where I wanted to be. I didn't exactly know where. All I knew is that I wanted to do something to make my mother proud. Or at least smile at me. Just once.
My relationship with my mother was always difficult. She keeps her emotions hidden within her heart, as she taught me to do. The look she gives me is always stern, without affection.
At first I thought she had a problem with my sexuality. When I told her I'm gay, she didn't say anything. Just continued doing whatever she was doing. But then when I took my first boyfriend home, she didn't seem bothered. If anything they got along really well. Even after we broke up, he and my mother maintained contact. She was even at his wedding two months ago. So me being gay really has nothing to do with how she treats me.
I assumed then it was because of our financial situation. Although we were poor, I never lacked anything, but there was no luxury, not even remotely. My childhood passed without expensive toys or holiday trips. Maybe that's why my mother was so strict with me. Maybe she wanted me to be someone in life and couldn't afford to.
The desire to show her that I was capable stayed with me throughout my childhood and adolescence. Like a needle stuck in my skin, there it was, in plain sight, never letting me forget for even a moment that if I became someone, I would have the affection I so longed for. I would have my mother's love.
When my father passed away, I was attending university. I was already living on my own. My mother lost her job and my sister decided not to pursue her education so she could work and help at home. I had a part-time job and was living on a tight budget but I still tried to help as much as I could.
I studied hard during school. I graduated with high grades, which prompted one of the professors to introduce me to one of his friends, who at time was a very respected and known attorney in the country. I worked with him for four years, which was enough to make a name for myself.
I'm now a partner in one of the best law firms in the country. I represent big companies and people I used to see only on TV.
"And today I can afford whatever I want," I congratulate myself.
Yet, the reason I tried so hard to get where I wanted doesn't even acknowledge my accomplishments. My mother barely looks me in the eyes whenever I visit her. I still help her. Every month I sent her money but since she refuses it, I have to send it to my sister, who hides it from our mother because we both know the old woman will force herself to throw up if she finds out that the food she eats was bought with the money I send.
I also bought a house for them. My mother of course refused to moved out from our old house, and my sister had no choice but to stay with her. I still put the house in both their names.
I let out a sigh again. Standing here in the kitchen, engrossed in these thoughts, I start preparing breakfast.
Once done, I eat with no rush. Almost smiling, I leave the dirty dishes on the sink and head to the bedroom. I pack a pair of workout shorts and a T-shirt into the bag I take to the gym. I put in my briefcase copies of a case I took home to study.
I open my wardrobe full of white shirts, black, gray, or navy-blue suits. Color only in the ties. I get dressed and style my hair. It's half past six in the morning. "Better head to the office now. That way, I won't hit traffic," I decide.
As I leave the bedroom, I stop at the door. The unmade bed brings the dream back to my memory. As well as the intensity of my emotions. I reflect on how my reaction to the dream is incomprehensible. Why does it affect me so much? 'It doesn't make sense,' I think. For the thousandth time, I repeat to myself, 'This dream has nothing to do with me. I've never seen that guy. I don't speak whatever language they were speak, I don't live in the 40s. And most importantly, I'd never make an absurd promise like the one in the dream.'
"I'll forever love you."
Love? I never loved anyone that isn't my family. I've never fallen in love. And that was the reason my first boyfriend and I broke up. I simply couldn't bring myself to love him. Or anyone. All my relationships were a failure because of it.
Whenever I hear people talk about love, I really don't understand the enthusiasm with which they refere to this feeling. Maybe love doesn't even exist. Who knows, it might be pure imagination. So, how can I talk about eternal love? It's impossible to understand that dream. Yes, impossible. There has to be a deeper explanation.
Maybe I really need to talk with someone. It's just a matter of having the courage to seek a therapist. To seek help to calm my nights and stop waking up startled and anguished. I need a good night's sleep. Something I haven't had in a long time.
Mentally, I make the decision to overcome my doubts and look for a therapist. "I'll do it as soon as I have some time off," I tell myself.
I need to free myself from that dream. Especially from those dark brown eyes that I continue to remember even when I'm wide awake.