The Violent Dream

Notes/Warnings: Thoughts of suicide, violence, gore, blood, mental health.

I sank into the white, fluffy couch, its plush cushions nearly suffocating me with their warmth. My therapist sat across from me, her glasses falling along the bridge of her nose as she peered downward, her pen tapping in a relentless rhythm against her notebook. 

“Mave,” she coaxed, “tell me more about your dream.” I swallowed hard, forcing down my rising bile. 

The dream had not been one I wanted to relive again, but it had been tormenting me for months, and I needed help. One more night of it, though, and I may throw myself off the roof of her office. I closed my eyes and forced myself there again. 

An alleyway situated itself around me, lined with crumbling buildings and uneven concrete sidewalks. The concrete, slick with grime, stretched before me, and there he was—the man.

He scrambled on all fours, his hands splayed behind him, legs frantic as he pushed himself away from something I couldn’t see.

“Please,” he begged, his words desperate and breathless. “I have a family.” I stared down at the blade in my hand. It was a long wooden stick with a sharp, curved blade on the end. It reminded me of a scythe, though I’d never even seen one in person. So why was I holding it? 

I didn’t want to hurt the man, but something forced my hand. There was no resisting it as it pushed my arm upward over him and then slammed the blade down over his head. His blood spattered me, warm and thick, coating my hands, my face, the alley beneath me, turning into a river of crimson.

The man’s body twitched, and his last breath escaped in a wet gurgle. He had a family. People that loved him. But this version of me—the one that prowled this place—did not care. His head shifted slightly to the side before stilling itself on the ground. Then, I simply placed the weapon over my shoulder and continued down the alley, searching for my next victim. 

I screamed at myself to stop, begged even, but it was like she couldn’t hear me. I didn’t know this girl, this version of myself. She was vicious, heartless, and craved more. 

“Tell me what you see, Mave,” the therapist called out. My body was trembling, and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my back as I watched myself walk through the streets like a wild animal. 

“I killed the man. And I am going to do it again,” I replied flatly, unable to provide any more details without choking on my tears. 

“Take a deep breath,” she replied, and I felt her cold hand brush my own. My eyes snapped open at the contact, causing her to flinch. 

“We’re almost there. We just need to push a little further, okay? This could really be our breakthrough. Why did you kill him? Why are you still hunting?” Her questions were ones I’d asked myself a million times over. 

If I knew, I’d tell you. But I didn’t even understand it myself.

I took a shaky breath, willing the bile down my throat, and slipped back into the dream. This time, I didn’t just watch—I became her. The killer. A pulse thrummed through me, wild and chaotic, like something ancient waking up inside my bones. Whispers filled my head, a thousand voices all at once, but only one cut through the noise. 

Kill them all.

“No!” I screamed, desperate to shut it out, but it was deafening now. 

Kill them all. Kill them all. Kill them all. 

The blade came down again, a woman’s head tumbling to the pavement. I felt her pulse in my hands, the warmth of life before it drained away. My body moved with mechanical precision, hunting, killing, relishing in the screams, the blood. They were nothing to me—just faceless, nameless targets.

I begged for it to stop. But dream-me didn’t care. She thrived on this.

I was unleashed. No one in the streets was safe from my spree. One after another, heads dropped like apples from a tree, landing with slick thuds. No one tried to stop me—no one even seemed to care. They were all too busy running for their lives, and I didn’t blame them for it. My consciousness began to drift away, leaving me with only the thoughts of the psycho-killer version of myself. 

She enjoyed the kill. I still didn’t understand why. I couldn’t find a bigger reason for this kind of behavior, but I could feel the pleasure it brought. The only target I didn’t sink the blade into was children or animals—at least, they were spared from my wrath. The only feeling that seemed to almost overpower the pleasure was that of rage. It burnt like an inextinguishable flame, and it grew more intense with each new victim. 

No one stood a chance against me. It was as if I were trained for this, dodging attempted punches and kicks with grace. Why can’t I stop? Why don’t I want to stop? I tried to listen to my mind, hoping the voice would tell me the answers, but it never came. 

Stern hands shook me violently, drawing me away from my dream and back to the reality of the therapy room. I peered down at my hands, desperate to scrub the blood from my hands, but there was none. It was just a dream. 

“Where did you go?” the therapist asked me, her hand still gently placed on my shoulder. “It was like the dream took you away entirely again.” 

Again. This had happened before when she’d asked me to put myself back inside the dream. It was like it overpowered me, sucking me into it like it was reality. “It did,” I replied, my voice sounding broken. 

She closed her notebook and set it on a desk behind her, leaning into me slightly. “I think that’s enough for today, dear. I don’t want to push too much. Let’s try again tomorrow at the same time. Okay?” Her lips curled into a sincere-looking, soft smile, and I gave her a nod in response. It would be the same tomorrow, too, though. I knew that much. 

As I opened the door to leave, I nearly slammed into the body of a man.  I nearly collided with a tall man waiting outside, his face kind but tired. Our eyes met briefly before I stepped aside, letting him in. The second I was out of the room, he shut the door tightly behind him.

The nosy part of me made me hesitate for a moment, waiting to see if I could hear them speak—and verify if he’d heard me speaking too. 

“Any progress?” I heard him ask, his voice gruff and low. 

“Same as before,” the therapist replied. “She doesn’t remember.” They were talking about me, wondering how much I remembered. 

“I need you to get there quicker. We can’t possibly put her on trial if she thinks it was all a dream. Those families deserve justice—her plea for insanity will pass with ease unless you get through to her and get a confession. You have to prove that her mind is sound.” 

“I’m doing all I can,” the therapist replied, and I smiled. They didn’t know. 

I’m almost a better actor than I am a murderer.