1. Prospects Unknown
“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, the oldest and strongest kind of fear is of the unknown.” H.P. Lovecraft
There is a dream that lingers with me, one that invades my waking moments occasionally. It usually hits when I have fits of melancholy, which as of late, has been steadily increasing, for no real reason that I can sense.
I know the dream will overtake me when I suddenly smell pine sap drifting in the wind, even when there are no pine trees around. Even on hot days, I can still feel the cool breeze of a lake as I inhale. I used to try to dismiss the dream, suppress it, and take my mind off of it.
But the dream is unyielding. It wants to be seen, heard, and recognized. During these spells, I am still in control of my body. I am still aware of what is happening around me, but my entire attention is shot. I have to replay the sequence, in total, otherwise, I cannot unlock myself and go about my normal day-to-day life.
My therapist tried to ask why this memory was so powerful that it kept being dredged up after all of these years, and we’re still working on it. That progress is crushingly slow, and I don’t feel like I am any closer to answers, so today I am beginning the journey to rise and meet it.
So let’s start from the top.
The dream starts around midday in the woods surrounding my parents’ lakeside cabin. The cabin is on fire, and my parents are standing outside of it, smiling at me, bidding me to come towards them. But I can’t. I’m on edge–I don’t know why, but my body is screaming at me to run away and not look back. So I do.
I’ve tried to, at various moments, induce a lucid state of dreaming where I can run towards them, and ask them about what is happening. But my feet turn as heavy as boulders, and I am rooted to the spot the moment I walk forward. If I walk backward, I am suddenly light and airy. So I continue on this well-treaded path.
The scene shifts into darkness, and I am running through brambles, my cheek scratched as I dash through the woods. It is muggy and humid, my feet sloshing through mud that was formed by a recent thunderstorm. I can smell the sharp scent of rain on hot asphalt; there is a road nearby, and the headlights of cars zoom by with nary a care.
This is usually where the dream stops.
But tonight, it continues further than I have ever been.
There is an archway in the middle of a clearing, torches tucked into the rough-hewn stone that makes up the majority of its shape. A door appears. I grope for it hurriedly, anxiety rising in my chest, my voice breaking out in sobs–
I wake up.
It is morning.
I blink a few times, and hear the gentle buzzing of my phone vibrating off of my nightstand and onto the floor. I reach for it groggily, feeling very heavy as I pick it up and blearily try to read the screen. Answering it in a hoarse voice, I hear myself say “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Sharpe. Jack?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m Mr. Dickson. The day shift manager, at your parents’ RV Park?”
I blink a few times. “Oh…okay.”
“Listen…it’s probably best you get down here. Sir…I…”
His voice sounds shaky. Scared.
“What…what’s going on?” I say, my voice now trembling.
“Something just awful happened, Jack. Ah, shit, kid. I don’t know how to say it over the phone, but your parents passed this morning.”
My heart freezes.
“…What?” I say, numbly.
“Their cabin. A fire broke out. And…they didn’t make it out in time.”
The dream. It still has to be a dream.
But this time, I don’t wake up. I hang up the phone and release all control of my muscles. Falling on the floor, I curl into a ball, not sobbing. Not feeling anything.
Some pain is just too much.
