Afternoon Summer Nightmare

I am living in a beautiful dream. Lying in the treehouse in the yard, without worries or problems, I feel as if in a perfect world. The summer sun is mild, the air pleasantly warm and with a subtle breeze passing through the windows: I could never imagine a more idyllic scenario and, when drowsiness surrounds me, I let myself be carried away by its rhythm, protected in memories of a childhood that was gone long ago but that, in this place, is stuck in the walls, refusing to leave. 

Before I fall asleep, I blink for what seems like forever. I open my eyes, there is blood on my hands, a body lying on the opposite side of the room, and the adrenaline makes my heart beats faster.

I am lost, feeling my fragile illusion running between my fingers, without being able to contain it. How could things have happened so fast? Where had that come from? How could I not have noticed?

Confused, I get up, only to lose my equilibrium and fall again, unstable and with the feeling that the world is spinning around me; I touch my head, discovering that part of the blood was mine, probably due to a concussion when I fell, but when did I fall? I remember perfectly lying down to rest.

With a new attempt, I finally get to my feet and, leaning on the tiny furniture in the treehouse, walk over to someone who shouldn't be there. 

Everyone had left the house in the morning and I assumed no one would be back before sunset. Despite that, he seems very real to me when I approach, touching him to wake up.

Only then I realize the amount of blood around the man, a red ink coloring the floor, running down the grooves of the wood. The stain would remain there forever, a shadow over the previously immaculate memories of that place.

I can't identify his face: there is a lot of dirt mixed with blood that covers him, but with my fingers on his wrist, I discover that, at least, he is alive, even though he does not have much time left. I look around for something to help, but the few chairs and cushions, marked by my bloody hands, just look back at me, indifferent.

A moan makes me jump in fear, away from the body, until I realize that he woke up. When I place myself in his field of vision, his unfocused eyes widen and, half-dying, he tries to pull away, murmuring incoherent words. I try to stop him: moving will only make his injuries worse, but before I can touch him, his desperation seems to increase and I finally hear part of what he says. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”, a religious plea, which only makes him appear wilder, and notwithstanding its disturbingly familiar aspect, I try to calm him down.

"Don't be afraid. I'll call an ambulance and you'll be fine”, I say, but he doesn't seem to hear, or to care, without interrupting his prayer and standing in the corner farthest from me that he could be.

I get up, looking for my phone. It can't be far, but there are not many places where it could be, and soon I start to worry; I don't want to risk going down the steep treehouse staircase while my mind still seems out of place, I'm just running out of options. 

Then, suddenly, the room is silent. I no longer hear the man's labored breathing or lamenting murmurs and I know that, when I look back, he will be dead. I do it, slowly and trying to prepare myself, but I couldn't be sufficiently prepared for what I see, or rather, for what I don't see: the man is gone. Not as if he wasn't there: the blood, hot and slimy, still permeated the floor, but there is no one in the treehouse beside me now. 

I start to shake. What is happening? The heat, previously comfortable, became oppressive. Sweat drips and makes me shiver, the muffled and still air buries me under its silence, and my movements appear to be slower as if I'm running through water. In the quietness, I can hear my heart, loud as a drum, preventing me from hearing anything other than my fear. 

The metallic smell of blood is inevitable now, blocking my nostrils, worsened by the sun, which, in its decay, shows through my window; I have no idea how much time has passed, but the afternoon is slowly giving way to twilight. 

My head gradually clears and I think that the peace from before all this is returning: it was all just a nightmare, and I'm finally waking up. The silence remains, almost a tangible presence, but I pretend that everything is in order again, that the environment is not as heavy as it was. I go to a window, farther from the door, in search of an air that doesn't smell of trauma, without trusting me to get close to the stairs without falling; I will never look at this treehouse the same way again, such dreams cannot be forgotten. 

When I'm about to leave, footsteps sound on the stairs. Paralyzed by the fear that dominates me again, the sound comes closer and closer, the only one audible in the deep silence. Whatever it is, stop at the door, step forward and wait. Tic Tac. I am sure that this watch wasn't here, not even when I was a kid, I have always hated them. Tic Tac. I know I will have to turn around, or it will never end.

When I do, the sun overshadows my vision, coming through the window beside the door, almost setting, but its reddish light casting a bloody aspect on everything, extending the shadows and making it impossible for me to see the person. However, I don't need to see him to know that he is the same man as before; I don't know how, but I know. 

He approaches, tiptoe, as if he likes the suspense, enjoys my terror, until it's close enough for me to see him. The face I see, which looks at me every morning since the altar, is incredibly serene, albeit the eyes are almost insane.

I have little time to realize this before I fall to the ground again, above the blood previously left by the one who now hurts me. When I'm about to lose consciousness, the last thing I see is him falling, getting a concussion when he hits the ground. As soon as I can remember what happened, I know that when I wake up, he will be looking at me and saying: “Don't be afraid. I'll call an ambulance and you'll be fine ”. Without any other options, I start to pray.