It Was All Just A Dream

Ellen awoke gasping, sweat clinging to her skin. The familiar nightmare had returned. She had been swimming, the turquoise water deceptively calm. Then, a shadow. The Great White Shark, a monstrous silhouette, appeared beneath the surface. Torn, lifeless bodies floated nearby, a grim testament to its previous hunts. Panic seized her. The shark's attack was swift, brutal. She felt the crushing pressure, the searing pain. Water filled her lungs. Darkness threatened.

Then, impossibly, the clouds above parted, revealing a column of blinding light. An unseen force lifted her from the water, defying gravity, carrying her upwards toward the ethereal glow. The shark was left far below, its menacing form shrinking into insignificance.

Ellen's eyes snapped open. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The room was dark, the nightmare's residue clinging to her like a shroud. This had been her recurring torment for years—a relentless cycle of terror and improbable salvation. This specific nightmare, a variation on a theme for years, always ended with dead eyes closing in seeing her reflection as the fiberglass skin rubbed against her flesh.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the rough texture of the carpet a grounding sensation. The process was ritualistic now. Nightmare, then the rising, the inexplicable ascension. Always followed by the making of coffee.

She moved through the familiar routine of preparing the drink, her actions precise and mechanical. Water boiled in the kettle. The scent of ground coffee beans filled the small kitchen. She poured the hot water over the grounds, the dark liquid slowly dripping through the filter. As the coffee brewed, she stood staring out the window, the rising sun painting the sky with hues of orange and gold. The ordinary world, for now, held her. The sun rising, a small victory against the night's relentless terror. The coffee, a small comfort. The day, perhaps, an opportunity to finally make sense of the trauma, or at least, to find a way to share it. Her story might help others. She thought of that as she poured herself a cup.

Today, the familiar pang of loss was sharper than usual. A peculiar shimmering heat emanated from the photographs, almost imperceptible at first, then growing steadily more intense. Ellen’s breath hitched. She leaned closer, her hand trembling as she touched the glass covering Michael’s image. The heat intensified, transforming into a swirling vortex of light and color.

The kitchen faded. Ellen found herself staring at a sun-drenched lawn, the scent of freshly cut grass filling her lungs. The two boys paused in their game, their eyes, clear and bright as polished gemstones, locking with hers. They didn’t speak, but a profound understanding passed between them, a silent communication that transcended words. They knew. They were together, forever playing in a realm beyond the constraints of mortality. A warmth, different from the spectral heat of the photograph, filled her, a love so immense it threatened to overwhelm her. Slowly, the vision dissolved, leaving Ellen back at her kitchen table, the coffee growing cold in her cup. The photographs were still, silent, yet the memory of their ethereal playground lingered, a bittersweet solace in the quiet solitude of her grief. The reality of her empty house pressed in, but a small ember of hope, born in that impossible world, glowed faintly within her. The boys were playing, and she knew, somehow, that she would see them again.

The Bahamian sun, a cruel parody of warmth, beat down on Ellen’s closed eyelids. But it wasn’t the sun’s heat she felt, it was the icy grip of the ocean’s depths. This time, the nightmare wasn’t a blurry, indistinct terror. This time, it was hyperreal. She *was* there, on the ocean floor, the swirling sand a dizzying vortex around her. She wasn’t Ellen anymore; she was Michael.

The familiar terror of the water, cold and suffocating, closed around her. But this wasn't the playful fear of a child, this was adult dread, amplified a thousandfold. This wasn't the childhood shark encounter that left a jagged scar on his leg; this was a different beast altogether. The water pulsed with a malevolent intelligence, a silent, predatory grace that transcended the natural world. It was an entity of pure shadow and crushing pressure, a being born not of flesh and blood, but of the ocean's deepest fears.

She saw the conch shells, scattered like fallen stars across the seabed, a testament to his research, to his life. Then, a flash of silver, a sudden tearing, and an unbearable pain, not just physical, but a gut-wrenching, soul-crushing agony that resonated with the nightmare's unnatural reality. She wasn't just witnessing his death; she was experiencing it, molecule by molecule, the fading light echoing the extinguishing of his life.

The Bahamian air palpable in her dream were heavy and humid against her skin, the scent of salt and decay clinging to the edges of her memory. The nightmare clung to her, a spectral shadow that stretched beyond the confines of sleep. It wasn't just the re-experiencing of his death; it was a chilling awareness of the ocean’s deep, sentient sorrow, a grief that extended beyond Michael, beyond human comprehension, a cosmic anguish that echoed the loss of all things mortal.

The familiar guilt gnawed at her. His love for the ocean, his unyielding pursuit of its mysteries – a pursuit that had drawn him back to the very thing that almost claimed him as a child, ultimately claiming him as a man. Had she failed him by not stopping him? Was she a participant in this tragedy, however unwilling?

She looked out at the turquoise water, the gentle waves lapping against the shore a cruel mockery of the violent, unimaginable depths she'd just visited in her sleep. The vibrant coral reefs, the playful dolphins, the very beauty of the ocean that had drawn her son felt alien, tainted by the horror of the nightmare. The ocean, once a source of wonder and joy, now seemed a cruel, unforgiving entity, a vast, sentient being that both cradled and destroyed, a primal force that rendered human life insignificant. And Ellen, caught between grief and guilt, was left alone to grapple with the horrifying reality of a nightmare far more real than she could bear.

The salt-laced wind whipped Ellen’s hair across her face, mirroring the turmoil within. She stood on the beach, the familiar, unforgiving sand cold beneath her bare feet. The ocean, vast and indifferent, stretched before her, a shimmering, menacing canvas reflecting both the beauty and the brutality she knew so intimately. Last night’s dream – a swirling vortex of teeth and blood, the ghostly, skeletal remains of a boat – bled into the harsh reality of her waking life. The dream had been Sean, her younger son, swallowed whole by the same monstrous hunger that had terrorized the water years ago.

The Great White, a phantom of her waking thoughts, wasn’t just a creature of flesh and blood; it felt like a manifestation of her own grief, a constant, gnawing presence. It pulsed in the undertow, in the sighing of the wind, in the empty space beside her where Martin used to stand. She saw him now, a spectral figure, his silhouette wavering against the horizon as the sun dipped below the waves, a half-forgotten memory blurring with the dream’s sharp edges.

Her husband Martin’s death, a heart attack precipitated by years of silent suffering and self-medication, was an insidious echo of the shark’s predatory strike. He’d carried the weight of the tragedy—a tragedy Ellen now saw as partly her own making. Their proximity to the ocean, a choice made out of love for the island, had condemned her sons. A bitter realization. Had she shielded them enough? Had she even understood the depths of Martin's own silent suffering? He had been alone, adrift in his own internal sea, even while physically present. Their lives, she realized now, had been a series of near misses and devastating collisions, punctuated by a horrifying, recurring motif.

She recalled Martin in her lucid dream, sitting near the window with a bottle of brandy. He stared out to the horizon, lost in thoughts. She called out to him as he would throw back a shot, purposely ignoring her. She would beg and plead for his connection as he became smaller and disappeared into his chair. She recalled waking night after night in sweat and crying his name as she fell back asleep. She looked at her reflection in the mirror as the realization that she was alone even was he was still alive. The alcohol. The alcohol that she gave up years ago. The alcohol that consumed him. The alcohol that she still drank in these dreams.

Suddenly, beyond her window view, a shimmering distortion appeared in the air above the waves. A ripple in the fabric of reality, like heat rising from asphalt on a summer day, but far stranger. From it emerged not a shark, but a spectral image – Sean, his youthful face unmarred by the sea's savagery, laughing, playing on the beach, his laughter echoing in the silent expanse of her memory. He smiled at her, not with reproach, but with understanding. A single tear traced a path through the salt on her cheek. This was not a phantom of her grief, but a glimmer of peace.

The vision faded, leaving Ellen feeling oddly lighter, the weight of her guilt, though not erased, subtly shifted. The Great White, no longer a symbol of pure malice, represented a traumatic past, not an inescapable future. She would confront the ocean with a fierce determination to survive. The relentless waves would no longer dictate her life, but rather serve as a backdrop for the unfolding of her healing.

This dream-man, whose name she somehow knew was Hoagie, didn't speak with words, but with gestures of effortless grace and understanding. He held her hand, a touch that radiated warmth and strength, and together they walked along the edge of the amethyst sea, the wind whispering secrets only they could understand. The sea itself pulsed with a gentle rhythm, each wave a memory – a faded photograph, a forgotten conversation, a wound long neglected – and as each wave washed over her feet, it left her lighter, cleaner. Hoagie's presence was a constant anchor, his silent support a tangible force against the tide of her past.

In one breathtaking moment, the amethyst sea transformed into a field of blooming sunflowers, each head bowing in a silent greeting. The sunflowers spoke, not with audible sound, but with images flooding her mind: images of laughter, of sun-drenched days, of a future brimming with possibilities. This was not merely healing; it was a blossoming, a resurrection of joy previously buried beneath the weight of sorrow.

Ellen with a smile gracing her lips, the lingering scent of sunflowers somehow clinging to the air. The memory of Hoagie's golden eyes and the amethyst sea lingered, a vibrant tapestry woven into the fabric of her being. She knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that this wasn't just a dream. It was a message, a gentle nudge from her subconscious, whispering, *You are strong. You are loved. It is okay to let go, to embrace the sunrise after the storm.* A hopeful anticipation fluttered in her chest, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, the man in her dreams was a reflection of the love she was ready to find in the waking world. The possibility filled her with a quiet, radiant joy, a promise of a new dawn. She pondered and found it ironic that he was a pilot and how this love, as unreal as it was, helped her to rise above in a way.

The chipped porcelain mug warmed Ellen’s hands, the cold coffee doing little to wake her from the phantom chill that lingered for years. The years since Martin’s death had been a slow, agonizing descent into a twilight world of grief, punctuated by vivid dreams where a man with eyes like the summer sea offered her a glass of amber liquid, a forbidden indulgence mirroring her own buried desires. She knew it was a dream, a construct of her longing, yet the emotional weight of it pressed upon her with the relentless tide. Today, however, was different. A stillness, a quietude unlike any she'd known since Martin’s passing, settled over her. She finally understood. The love in her dreams was a ghost; real love was the enduring warmth in her heart for her sons, a love that outshined through the boundaries of the tangible and intangible worlds.

A smile, tentative yet genuine, bloomed on her lips. It was a smile born not of fleeting happiness but of a profound acceptance, a release from the shackles of her past. It was the quiet dawn of peace.

The insistent trill of the telephone shattered the fragile stillness. She answered, the receiver a cold weight in her hand. A voice, a familiar balm against the lingering ache, filled her ears. The words were simple, concerned, but they carried the unspoken weight of years spent worrying about their mother. The words "nightmares" hung in the air, a tangible link to the past.

Tears, not of sorrow but of overwhelming relief, streamed down Ellen’s face. His assurances of his and Sean’s well-being were anchors in this newfound serenity; they were the solid ground she'd been searching for in the shifting sands of grief.

His proposed visit became a promise of a future unburdened by the weight of her dreams; a promise of the tangible, the real. Her final words, whispered with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, held a subtle, yet significant, undercurrent.

"Michael."

"Yes Mom?"

"I so look forward to seeing you. But could we do so, for God's sake, meet somewhere away from the water,"