The Other World

When the cold returns, so do my nightmares: vivid, sharp, crisp and painful dreams of horrid things. My nights become trapped in another world, living through movies that only exist in my head, braving stories my subconscious wrote. And, it drives me here to leave them on this page, despite knowing there is no solace in writing them out. It only serves to express what the various part of my brain is waking to scream across the folds of my mind.

I dreamed of war the other night. I was rushing across a battlefield, ducking into dirt and blood caked holes, and seizing wounded soldiers roughly in my grip to drag them to the safety of the white med tents. Like my white uniform, the tents were stained with red.

There were so many I tended, bandaged and watched died. As dreams often do, parts have faded and blurred across my mind into blank spots. But, I remember a man who lost his arm and the nausea I felt staring at the gruesome wound. I remember bandaging a bloody wrist as the crimson seeped through the cream bandages and onto my own hands. Blood was under my nails, staining me.

I kept shouting orders at other nurses and doctors around me. It's not unusual for me to be in charge in wake or sleep. But, in my wake, I am not tending the dying as they fight a goblin army. On occasion the goblins would get close to our tent and I would see flashes of black. I knew if they got in, we would all die. So, I gave more orders to fight them back to my team and commanded the soldiers stationed to guard us.

I was so brave in this dream despite tangibly feeling restless fear seething under my skin. A soldier that looked like my husband burst through the door. Emotions of tender love thudded in my ribs. I knew in this dream, we were still only crushes. His brown curls were tussled, his uniform wrinkled and dirty, and his cheeks more red than usual. He grabbed my shoulders.

"We have to go, " he commanded urgently. People around us were suddenly running away, screaming. I could hear snarls and ripping cloth. Go? And leave my patients to fall prey to the hungry jaws I had only just dragged them from? How could I?

My mouth parted to tell him this, to tell him we had to stay and defend these men, but words did not emerge. Instead, the pressure of dog paws on my chest drug me from sleep. I awoke, tucked in my husband's arms, with our youngest dog atop me, peering down eagerly.

The disconnect was jarring. It always is when the dreams return. I feel groggy and unhinged when I wake from such gory entanglements. Moments before wake, I am fighting for my life in a world that feels very real to me. Then, I am thrust into another world, blinking and confused. And, as winter sets in, the frequency of these adventures into the dark cavern of my imagination will return.

I would call this dream a mild dose of what is to come with the bleak cold of winter darkness. The gore will get worse, the wars more violent, and the feelings louder. There will be nights I awake vocalizing my fear with damp cheeks and confusion. Monsters lay sleeping in the summer chapters of my mind, ready to yawn and crawl forth to prey upon me.

But, with these things, my writing will flourish. My imagination during the day will perk up, unfurl, and bloom. Though the nights are torturous, I can feel the anticipation of the days to come. The season feeds both, so I welcome it. Gladly, I will endure the dreams to find my wake riddled with stories and fantasies that leap to paper with ease. So, I make a trade, as I am sure many horror authors do, and accept that the two work together. To rid the nightmares is to burry my writing.

And, I have no memories of childhood or even adulthood where the dreams are gone for good. I have walked in the other world of my sleep for as long as I can recall. It's just existed there, like a portal I slip through to dance in a world of shadows, death, and dark creatures. It mirrors this world yet differs in some ways. Established dwellings are always the same when I return, and characters still as they were. There's landmarks in that world and rules, just as there are in my reality. Folklore is built into haunted forests and houses.

The cold air creeps in at my window sill these mornings, and I find myself going back to that horrid world. It's a wild feeling that shakes out anxiety and delight at the same time. There are so many things I will see, very soon. Things I am not sure I want to see. But, there are many more things I will write evening after evening as the sun sets sooner and sooner. And, the writing will be welcome as the darker part of my mind wakes up to play in the snow.