Every night I go to sleep, I have this wild imagination rather hope that sleep was optional. I wish humans required no sleep to function. It is inevitable, like most things in my life. When exhaustion takes the better of me, sleep comes and so does my nightmares. There is always those two people, a lady and a man caressing a small child merely five years old. The child shared the same red color hair as that lady, confirming his mother and the other man his father. I have always felt like that child was me. The start is pleasant with smiles and a happy reflection of a bright day. It’s the part after I blink my eyes, the lady and the man dead and the child holding a knife in his hand. All I see, then, are the eyes filled with fear but no guilt.
That is when I get up and start staring all around me, the room is the same, me alone. The same red hair but eyes reflecting only confusion. People tell me that those are just dreams which will never come true and are a fragment of my subdued mind. Why does it feel so real then? The possibility of that day seemed so distinct because the only person who knew about it, was me. I did a stupidity once of asking him, “Why does it look so real?” He answered, ” Because it is. It is part of your life, all dreams are, but reality is not always to be thought about.” I never understood what he meant by that, but the child in red hair felt like me as if the knife he was holding was the same one I carry in my belt. Whenever I asked myself about it, the only answer I got was, “If you hadn’t, they would have.” and I forget about the dream until I see it again, and every time I try to find an error in that happy image. To see what really went wrong.
Then I wear that hood which had seen many people’s blood on it. I was a killer, but I could not imagine myself being the one to kill those people in my dreams, those people who saw me with those eyes.