Fragments of My Nightmare

FRAGMENTS OF MY NIGHTMARE

I.           DRAGGING TO HELL

         “You again!” I said in mumble when I saw a young boy whose face and white shirt were covered with blood. He pointed to an old man beating a woman. The woman was screaming hysterically. I blinked and suddenly the man blasted a door open and forced the boy to enter the room. When the kid pleaded, the old man yelled at him, cursed him, and hauled him by his hair. He and the kid entered the dark room.

I blinked and found myself down in the basement. Darkness enfolded me. I looked up when the door opened. I saw the man dragging the boy downstairs when all of a sudden, he violently pushed the kid off the staircase. The kid fell to his knees, stumbled down the stairs and his head knocked on a wooden chair.

I woke up when a sudden painful blow hit my forehead. I was gasping for air and involuntarily touched my forehead. I thought I was bleeding, but there was no blood. Not even a lump. I looked around and realized I was just in my room. I frowned when I glanced at the wall clock, it was 3 o’clock in the morning. I sat in my bed to reach a bottled water on my table near the lamp. My heart was still pounding heavily even after I gulped a large amount of water.

A couple of weeks ago, I kept dreaming about this young boy covered with blood. His pale, gory face was so vivid that it haunted me for weeks. The image of his face never left me. I remember when I was in the kitchen, the light shortly went off and suddenly, when the light came back, he was standing in the corner. His eyes were locked on me. I felt like he was screaming for help, yet too frightened to speak up. A surge of fear overwhelmed my body. I was stunned. I blinked and he was gone.

This nightmare is different though. The boy led me to see what happened to him. And what’s weirder was that I felt the pain in my forehead as his head hit the chair. I felt blood pouring from my head. It felt real.

With a surge of courage, I stood up and walked toward my drawing table. A pulled out a drawer and grabbed a small storage bag. I felt a bit petrified when I saw my unfinished work on a canvas. My hands trembled slightly as I took the canvas. It was the boy’s face. I started it when I had this nightmare for the first time. I could not finish it though because it always gave me an eerie feeling.

“This has to end!” I screamed in my head, fighting my fear. I grabbed the canvas from the drawer and walked back to my bed. I put the storage bag and canvas on my bed. I sat and pulled out my charcoal pencils, compressed charcoal, and kneaded eraser from the storage bag.

The boy’s face covered 1/3 of the canvas. So, I planned to maximize the background by recreating the scene of the man pulling the boy’s hair and the woman standing behind him near the door. I stroked my charcoal pencil to draw a staircase far behind the boy’s face. The open door was the only source of light that slightly illuminated the basement.

As I began sketching the man, I felt like someone was looking at me from my room’s closed door. But I did not dare to look at it, one nightmare was enough to scare the hell out of me.

As I drew the boy’s face while being hauled, something boggled my mind. What was he thinking at that moment? Maybe he thought it was just a dream. Everything was just a nightmare that when he woke up his world would go back to normal. No wound on his head, no taint of blood in his shirt. This is just a nightmare.

“Wake up kid.” I whispered.

II.          TRAPPED INSIDE

“Wake up!” I shouted. I was shaking his body. I didn’t know how I ended up here but I’m in the basement sitting next to the boy. He was lying on his blood.

“Come on, wake up!” I yelled again. But the boy suddenly disappeared and when I turned my head, he was crawling up the stairs. I just stared as he crawled. He picked up a Mickey Mouse stuff-animal on the stairs and slowly continued to climb up. When he reached the door, he started pounding it with his fist.

“Mommy!” he screamed. I headed near him. My heart leaped for a moment when the door moved, but we both heard the sound of a chain at the back of the door. They’re locking the door.

“Sorry honey!” A woman whispered.

“Hey!” I shouted and punched the door.

“You motherfuckers, open the door!” I kept punching the door, but everything went dark. The door disappeared. All I could see was how he was hugging Mickey Mouse while shedding tears.

I abruptly opened my eyes and immediately sat in my bed. I could not help myself but weep, trying not to make a sound. I felt all his pain. They are monsters for leaving him alone in a basement and locking him up with chains. This child had horrible parents. How could they do that to an eight- or nine-year-old boy? They were insane. I felt my heartbeat racing fast and was going to explode anytime. The last time I felt so much pain was when my friend died years ago from a motorcycle accident. I just expressed what I feel through charcoal painting to overcome the pain, but how could the boy ever overcome such pain? He only had his Mickey Mouse.

I headed towards my drawing table and got my painting kit and a clean canvas. I started sketching him holding his Mickey Mouse and his hand was pounding the door. Closed fist and crying. I put details in his eyes because that’s one thing I will never forget about him. His eyes were full of sadness, pain, and anger. The painting now served as the door, and no one can help him get out of it. Darkness was engulfing him. He was trapped inside. My breathing became harder as I dug into the details of his background. I thought it was over. When I finished the Dragging to Hell painting, I really thought this nightmare would end. But it did not, it even spawned a new storyline. What the hell? What the hell is this? Why am I having this nightmare? It had been a week since I finished the painting and the last time, I had that nightmare. It came back and I felt like I was trapped in this series of nightmares. How could I ever escape this shit?

I did not stop until I finished it. I started at 4:00 pm and finished after two hours. I want this to be over. I want this feeling of misery to end. And when I was finally done, I pounded the table and left the canvas there. I walked out of the room and wanted to go to get some fresh air.

“Finally, Alby, you left your room.” My mom told me.

I just smiled and continued climbing down the stairs. She offered to eat spaghetti and gingerbread with her. I was not really hungry.

“Sure, Mom.” I said and forced a smile.

         We headed toward the kitchen. She took plates and utensils. I watched her as she scooped up some pasta and put it on my plate.

         Though I was not good at showing affection. I really love my parents, especially Mom. I started to draw when I was in my third year of high school and discovered charcoal painting when I was in college, but I really didn’t know if I started drawing much earlier in my life, I had very blurry fragments of my childhood memories. But all I know is I am into painting. She bought me my first drawing kit and supported me with my art. She helped me express myself by drawing emotions I could hardly show. Whenever I had bad dreams or bad experiences in school, I had this feeling of drawing whatever was in my mind so that that dream, or experience would no longer bother me. Drawing and painting stuff became an outlet for me to forget bad memories and seeing them as art tells me that I had overcome them. My mom is my hero. Although she is so supportive of my painting habit, I don’t want her to know about the paintings regarding any of my nightmares. That’s why I hid the painting in my locked closet. I don’t want her to worry about me.

         She handed me a plate of pasta with spaghetti sauce on top. I am really grateful to have her and Dad. Some children suffer from bad parenting and from domestic and emotional abuse like the boy in my nightmares.

III.        PIECE OF BREAD

He was sitting with crossed legs on the floor, hugging his knees with his arms. He buried his face between his knees. Mickey Mouse was lying next to him; his left eye was unfastened.

           The sound of a chain rattling behind the door woke him up. We both stared at the door until it opened quietly. A silhouette of a woman appeared. She threw a piece of bread at him. It landed a few inches from his feet.

           I picked up the bread and then I turned to him to give it to him. But he was not there, instead, it was Liana. I found myself in her apartment. She suddenly kissed me on my lips and looked me in my eyes.

         “Goodbye!” she said calmly and all of a sudden, I found myself in the basement again. I heard the boy begging for her to give him a chance to prove to her that he was a good son. As a response, she shut the door. I heard the chain being fastened behind the door.

I looked at him and he ignored the bread. I grasped something in my hand and found out that I was still holding the same piece of bread I had picked a while ago.

         It was a nightmare blending with something that happened in the past. It had been two years since Liana and I broke up. Since then, I managed not to care about her, and whatever she had to say if integrity ever crossed her mind. I doubt it. She cheated on me, and I found out through a friend. She never explained anything to me, she just kissed me and said goodbye. A kiss. Maybe she thought it would erase what I have learned and what was about to come. I did not give her the satisfaction of begging for her love, I left her apartment like nothing happened. Admittedly, I wanted to talk to her, but I wanted her to make the first move. Since she never initiated to talk to me first, we never spoke to each other for more than two years.

However, after this nightmare, it felt like what happened to us at that moment in her apartment just happened hours ago. It made me think of what would happen if I were the one who made the first move for us to talk seriously…what if I talked to her and gave our relationship another shot? I suddenly felt like I missed her a lot no matter how I denied it to myself. I instantly felt a surge of remorse and pain. Now, I am thinking about how I contributed to her decision to cheat on me and leave me. Maybe I was too stubborn, or maybe she could no longer bear how introverted I am. I don’t know, I have lots of flaws.

I was wondering how come it blended with the mother throwing a piece of bread to her son who was in pain and in solitude. How could she just throw a piece of bread as if it were all that he needed and closed the door afterward? A bread. Maybe she felt the slightest slice of pity for the boy. Maybe she thought it would comfort him from the pain and loneliness. The boy did not pick up the bread until she closed the door. Probably, the boy was thinking about the things he should have done or said, but he was too exhausted to talk...to bargain.

As I started drawing the boy picking up the bread while no one was watching, a thought ruined my concentration. I have no idea how these series of nightmares occur, but I prefer having a nightmare feeling the physical pain or draining my tears in sadness about the boy’s misery, rather than feeling something I had forgotten long ago. I don’t want to feel the misery I already had surpassed before. I don’t want to relive any of it anymore. I simply want to move forward.

IV.        ROTTING IN PITCH DARK

My nightmares were getting weirder and more vivid than my previous dreams. It was becoming more frightening to fall asleep. I finished three paintings related to this boy who always appeared in my nightmares. The first one is ‘Dragging to Hell’; it shows violence and its outcome. The second one is ‘Trapped inside’: making him trapped in the painting to portray how he wanted to get out of his nightmare. And the last one is the ‘Piece of Bread’. It is a painting portraying how the boy waited for her mother to shut the door before getting the bread she threw to him. Although I made these beautiful paintings from my nightmares, I don’t want to have another nightmare again. It was getting worse. I will not fall asleep.

I was staring at my painting ‘Dragging to hell’. My eyes focused on the boy’s face when suddenly his eyes blinked. He looked at me.

“Why did you leave me here?” he said, he scratched his left eye with his finger. Forcing himself not to cry.

I felt my heartbeat racing when I found myself watching him holding her mother’s hand. They bought Mickey Mouse and they happily went home. But, in no time, everything went blurry until I heard distant screaming. His mother and father were arguing about something. I overheard that the father was forcing her to tell the truth about the boy.

“Is he Arnulfo’s son? Is he?!” he yelled at her.

Suddenly, I heard him hit her. The boy and I ran towards the noise. We found her moaning, touching her right cheek in pain. The father saw us and walked staggeringly toward a closed door and swung the door open. He ordered the boy to enter the door. The boy shook his head and hugged his Mickey Mouse. The old man pulled the boy’s hair and hauled him towards the door. They entered the room by dragging him downstairs and flung him to the floor. He passed out when his head hit a chair.

The boy finally woke up. He stood up and climbed up the stairs, tottering his way toward the door. When he reached the door, he jabbed the door repeatedly.

“Mom, I’m sorry. Please let me out. I’ll be a good boy. I promise.” he begged, sobbing.

But, instead of letting him out, they locked him up with a chain.

Days had passed when the mother opened the door and threw a piece of bread at him.

“I’m really sorry, honey!” she whispered and immediately closed the door.

With too much rage, he threw the bread and picked up his Mickey Mouse, and detached one of its eyes. He threw the eye on the staircase. I was wrong, he had never eaten the bread. He let himself get hungry for weeks. Crying and waiting for himself to die. He was rotting there…rotting in pitch black. There was neither light nor hope. There was nothing there. I hear him praying to die soon. I was listening to myself crying and praying to die now. Both my head and stomach were in stabbing pain. I am exhausted to knock on the door and beg Mom to let me out. I just wanted this misery to get over. I want Death to get me.

“Alby, wake up!” I heard a male voice yelling at me, while aggressively shaking my body.

“Oh my God, son. Wake up!” I now heard an angelic woman’s voice.

I can’t move. I can’t open my mouth. But I can hear them.

         It’s now clear to me. The boy whose face was covered with blood was just me. Those nightmares were fragments of my past that my mind is blocking me to remember. My father was hitting me because he believed I was not his son until my mother confirmed it, and everything went dark in my eyes. I was in great confusion and loneliness; I was locked up in pain and in anger. I could not do anything, I learned to accept my fate. Yet, Death was too slow to fetch me. I was patiently waiting until I forgot to breathe. But everything changed when a siren of a police car woke me up and footsteps rushed toward the door. They kicked the door open, and a policeman carried me in his arms. It was Dad. He was married to Mom for how many years they never had a child. I came to their life. They rescued me from hell. They rescued me from my father and from my mother who waited three weeks before contacting the police to help her child. I hope they can still rescue me now from this nightmare.