100TWC - Day 36: Dreamer

He was running. From what, or where to, he wasn't quite sure. One thing he was sure of though. Whatever it was was gaining on him. And it was a monster. Two things he was sure of. He couldn't decide which of them was more terrifying.

The landscape was unfamiliar. At first he thought he recognised it. The woods behind his childhood home, where once there was nothing more terrifying that a rook unexpectedly taking wing beyond the dappled green of the sap-steeped hollows he used to frequent as a boy. Vincent N'tanga didn't have a lot of friends. He had learned very early in life how to amuse himself. How to avoid the taunts of the neighbourhood children. Avoid their eyes, even, lest he give unintended offence for some unrecognised wrongdoing. But the paths through this wood were not the ones in his wood and, as he ran, his surroundings changed unusually quickly.

He ran around a corner straight into his kitchen. His mother was standing at the sink, peeling onions. Tears rolled down her face. He called out to her.

"Mother."

She turned, blinded by her tears, brandishing the knife.

"Who's there?"
"It's me, Vince."
"It can't be Vince. He never comes home before tea time."

She lunged at him with the peeler and Vince dodged through the kitchen and into the hall. Only it wasn't the hall. Where the hall had been was now an enormous, white, featureless room with a marble floor. From the door behind him came the roar of the monster, still gaining on him, its bellow echoing around the marble room as if it were coming toward him from all directions. He turned, trying to get back into the relative safety of the kitchen, but the door had slammed shut behind him and there was no handle on this side.

"Vince, this way!" called a low voice.

He spun around again, trying to locate the voice among the echoes.

"Over here!"

He could not make out the direction the voice was coming from. It came again, this time from right behind his ear.

"Come on! Hurry!"

A girl stood a few yards away along the same wall as the kitchen door. At first glance he thought it was his sister Toya, but as he looked closer he saw this girl was taller, older, and had longer hair. He stared once more at the kitchen door. It had begun to smoulder.

He turned back towards the girl, tripped over his feet and fell headlong into cold, fast-flowing water. He struggled to get a breath as the current bore him along. From the bank a branch overhung the river. It was covered in grubs, but offered the only available hand-hold. He reached for it, crushing several bugs into slimy brown mush as he pulled himself from the water. The slime began to eat away at his hand and in the space of a few seconds had exposed the bones of his fingers.

Without realising he was arriving at a conclusion, the explanation for the strange and rapid changes of terrain and the appearance and disappearance of people both known and unknown dawned on him. He was dreaming.

But if that were true, he should be able to wake up. He didn't remember exactly how old he was when he discovered that it was possible to become aware inside a dream. To control the dream, if you were careful. Or end it, if you weren't, or if it was the kind of dream you didn't want to prolong. It was a long time ago, that was for sure, and in the intervening years he had become quite adept at it. He stopped running, and forced his consciousness up through the levels of dreaming, like swimming up from the bottom of the pool where he had been holding his breath, trying to frighten Toya. He pushed, and pushed, and... opened his eyes.

He was still standing on the bank of the river, and nothing remained of his hand but bones. He began to scream.

"Mum!"

His hand fell into the river.

"MUM!"

From behind Vince's closed eyelid, a single tear emerged. It began to roll down his cheek before freezing, leaving a shining icy path behind it. Beyond his cryochamber, Professor David Redhead and Doctor Peter Barton were recording their outputs and observations in their logs. Barton's attention was caught by the reflection from Vince's crystalline lachrymation.

"Is that... a tear? David?"
"Autonomic response probably. There may be some irritation of his corneas."
"You're sure he can't be dreaming?"
"Not a chance. There's not enough brain function to sustain a dream at these temperatures. We have to make sure of that. A five-year-long dream would send anyone mad."