The Recurring Dream

The recurring dream was most unpleasant.

Every night, somewhere between 2 and 3am, Hunter Cabrera was murdered. And every night, somewhere between 2 and 3am, Hunter Cabrera woke himself, a hoarse scream echoing faintly in his small apartment.

He’d been in Charlotte for a few weeks now. Work brought him to the southeast, and he wasn’t prepared for the humidity that draped him in a damp blanket every morning on his bike into work. So, every morning was largely the same. He’d wake after a few pitiful hours of sleep, shower, eat, and head to the office. By the time he arrived, he needed another shower, and usually another meal. He liked the office fine. Fine enough to stay. For now.

He’d had his own office in the main corporate headquarters in Nevada, but here he shared a roomy closet with two others, Sheila and Daniel. He wasn’t quite sure what either of them did. Likely, they weren’t sure what he really did either. Not that it mattered much. The pay was consistent and good enough for him to live comfortably alone. He preferred it that way. Or at least, he did. He did before the dream.

In the beginning, the worst part wasn’t the dream itself. It was the lack of sleep that followed. He didn’t know how new parents didn’t murder each other a few weeks in, his temper was dreadful when he didn’t get a solid night’s rest. But that was in the beginning.

He’d lost track of how many nights he had the dream. He’d wager it was at least every other night for the last few weeks, maybe months. Time was stretching and bending itself around endless days and truncated nights. So here he was, awake in his bed, sunken into a memory foam mattress damp with sweat. A deep blue shadow arced from the corner of the bedroom overhead, ending in the sharp points of a clawed hand reaching for his throat. But it was only the shadow of a houseplant on this particular night.

He rolled over and checked his watch. 2:43 A.M blinked back at him. He slapped the watch back on his nightstand and stood. His legs were weak. He was still trembling. Slinking into the bathroom he shut his eyes tight and flicked on the light. When he opened them to aim for the toilet he saw spots. They twirled and bloomed, kaleidoscope shapes in gentle gradients obscuring his vision. He peed on the toilet seat he could’ve sworn he’d raised. No need to keep it down anymore.

Chocolate milk. That’s what he needed. His dad used to make him some chocolate milk every night before bed. His mom didn’t approve much, she always said it was too much sugar before bedtime. She said he’d have bad dreams, and it would be his dad’s fault. His dad would laugh it off, clap him on the back and tell him “kiddo, you have a bad dream you come wake me up, okay? You can always come wake me up.” But always isn’t the same as forever.

He pulled the chocolate syrup from the fridge and poured himself a glass of oat milk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real milk, but he didn’t need a raging stomach on top of the sleepless night. As he stirred the milk, he stepped to his front room window and cracked open the blinds. A beam of blinding orange light from the streetlamp outside bounced around the quiet living room. He waited for his eyes to adjust, then cast his gaze over the empty street. Several nights ago he’d done the same thing and happened to see a black cat streak across the road after a small shadow he assumed was a field mouse. Shadows chasing shadows.

Tonight the street was empty, tinted a pale orange. Hunter grabbed the blind to pull it closed but stopped when the street lamp began to flicker. The light would fizzle in and out from time to time, but this was the first night he could see someone watching him from on top of the fixture.

His milk glass shattered on the hardwood floor and he broke his gaze. When he looked back, heart pounding, he saw nothing. But that didn’t mean nothing was there.

“What the fuck-“ he said, his voice hoarse and breathy, “what the fuck?” He stooped to pick up the shards of glass, and noticed a tiny chunk had lodged itself in his big toe. The pain didn’t start until he saw it, but sure enough, there was glass in his toe. A swirl of red joined the light brown chocolate milk puddling up on the floor. He gingerly picked up as many large shards of glass as he could, and went to retrieve a broom and a towel. He shot one more look over his shoulder at the streetlamp. It was as it had always been, just a plain old streetlamp.

When he turned back towards the kitchen, a shard of glass pierced the darkness and dug itself deep into Hunter’s heart. They weren’t on the lamppost anymore because they were inside his house. Big yellow eyes greedily staring at the glass shard pushing deeper and deeper into Hunter’s chest. Big yellow eyes. Hungry. The clock in the kitchen shone 2:58. He was dead before 3:00.

The recurring dream was most unpleasant.