My nightmare is repeating for the fifth time

The first time he killed me, I was five. Engulfed in sleep, I wandered through the city as if through a labyrinth, though I knew every street and every building perfectly. The premonition of inevitable death tightened my throat, and it felt as if my heart was about to stop. That was when HE appeared for the first time. His face—a kaleidoscope of all the features familiar to me—changed every second, flickering as if in a glitched computer game. When our eyes met, I understood—today HE would kill me.

And so my small childhood body already lay on the frozen ground, though I had been running at full speed—there was no escape from HIM. Tall and slender, he loomed over me, grinning in all possible shapes of lips, while in my head I heard the pounding of my own heart—death was approaching. Pale hands with long, caterpillar-like fingers tightly gripped the brick. Just one moment—a dull strike—a sudden surge of pain. The world around me blurred, bright white spots appeared, and something warm and sticky spread across my head. My final breath filled my lungs. It turns out that dying isn’t all that painful.

Fifteen years have passed since that day, and He has managed to kill me three times. Usually, it was a blow to the head with a blunt object, though once he simply pushed me out of a window. Each time I died in peace, yet the fear I feel before death… this fear haunts me in waking life.

Doctor Stone adjusted his glasses in glossy black frames, sighed heavily, and, staring blankly at his notes, said:

— Ms. Blade, your recollections of dreams are quite clear, which is good, but we cannot be certain they are not false. The human brain, you know, dear (I hate when he calls me that), is quite an interesting thing. Memories of reality can be false, let alone those of dreams.

Now his gray eyes stared at me just as blankly. His thin lips pressed tightly together; he forced them not to move, giving me time to answer. And what exactly did he want to hear? What was I supposed to say?

Eventually, Doctor Stone slid closer to the desk and folded his hands on it like a student at a school desk. He cast another glance at me from beneath his high, wrinkled forehead and began to speak:

— Well, darling (how infuriating), I believe you should reflect on the symbolism of these dreams. You should ask yourself not only why you are being killed, but also why you do not fight back, why you do not attempt to interrupt this nightmare and instead only run. I would appreciate it if you wrote down your thoughts, and in two weeks we will once again discuss your experiences.

Now those thin lips spread into a smile that tried to appear gentle and carefree, yet I could see the disdain in it. At least he was the only one who agreed to devote time to these nightmares—this is what I would use to comfort myself until the next session.

On my way home through the dark streets, I once again wondered why it grew dark so early in winter. There was no snow at all, yet the cold wind lashed my face and burned my cheeks with frost. When I had nearly crossed the square, the wind intensified, people around me began scattering into buildings and cafés. “Just a few hundred more meters—and finally home,” I reassured myself, until the streets became completely empty. Then my heart accelerated along with my steps, and once again I began to feel fear, to anticipate something terrible, just like in those dreams.

Having climbed to the fourth floor of the old stone building and inserted the key into the white wooden door, so loose that the wind could easily tear it off its hinges, I suddenly realized the apartment was open. “What a scatterbrain! Good thing there’s nothing to steal,” a careless thought flashed through my mind for just a second. Clenching the keyring in my palm so tightly that every tooth bit into my skin, I suddenly realized that HE was in my apartment, and that the familiar streets I had hurried along on my way home were not familiar at all. “I’m asleep…” I whispered, frozen on the threshold of my own apartment.

Nervously thinking about what to do, I recalled Doctor Stone’s words.

“Why am I running? After all, running is useless. Why don’t I fight? He cannot be defeated! I don’t fight because he cannot be defeated!” Inevitability crushed my insides, my knees were shaking. Damn it, he will kill me again! The only thing I can do is die faster so that this nightmare will end.

Swallowing a lump of thick saliva, I resolutely stepped into the apartment. HE was standing in the living room and, for some reason, did not notice me. And that infuriated me, because I wanted to die, and he did not notice me!? I went into the kitchen and took a long, thin knife, still not understanding why. A sudden cold wrapped around my shoulders. HE was already behind me, intently examining the back of my head with every possible color of eyes. Casting aside hesitation, I turned—and what was this? He stood as if frozen in place, his face flickering, shimmering, changing every second, and then it vanished. HE had no face.

The thought spun again and again in my head: “He cannot be defeated because he is my nightmare. He is unreal. Wait… he is unreal, but I…” And there I stood, spreading into a smile, because I already knew what I had to do. He cannot be killed; he exists only to kill me, and nothing will stop him. But I am real, and I can be killed. He has done it more than once, therefore I must kill myself! Oh yes, if I kill myself, this monster will no longer have any reason to exist. And although he had no face, I felt that he knew what I intended to do. One more moment—and I would not make it, because he had already lunged. Just a second of pain—and there I was, lying on the kitchen floor with a knife in my throat. Until the white spots in my eyes merged into one, I could still see what was happening around me, watching the horror with which he ran around me and, stumbling, fled the room, accidentally dropping from his pocket a pair of glasses in glossy black frames. Glasses?

— Ms. Blade, dear, are you alright? — Doctor Stone blinked nervously.

The cold kitchen tile once again became a soft armchair.

— Yes, doctor, — I exhaled with relief.

Doctor Stone once again smiled “sweetly” in response.