Living The Dream

Time to wake up.

No, that’s not right, Jay thought. I’m already awake... I think.

A giant whale floated through the sky as he opened his windows to let the cool morning breeze flow through the branches of his treehouse. The air smelled like saltwater and wood sap. The leaves rustled softly as if whispering to him that the world outside was still real — or pretending to be.

Just as he turned to take it all in, the whale shifted its enormous gaze toward him. Its black, fathomless eyes shimmered like deep water. Opening its mouth wide, it released a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. The sound grew sharper, mechanical, rhythmic — the familiar sound of his phone alarm.

Jay sprang out of bed, gasping.

“I knew it. This time I’m awake,” he said to himself, voice cracking. He was still half-tired, his body pulsing with that strange nervous heat that always came when the boundaries between dreams and reality thinned. His heart thudded fast, his breath shaky, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for his phone.

Already, doubt slithered in. Or am I?

Jay suffered from a sleep disorder that tangled cruelly with his schizophrenia. The doctors said his condition was “mostly under control,” as if control was something you could measure. He had been stable for almost two years — or that’s what his psychiatrist had written in her notes. But nights like this, when dreams folded into other dreams, he wasn’t so sure.

He followed the same routine as in his dream — opened the same windows, let the same breeze in. This time, the sky was empty. No whale, no ocean smell, only the distant hum of traffic below the tree line.

“Yeah, I’m awake this time,” he muttered. His voice sounded heavy, like it had to drag itself through syrup.

The dreams within dreams weren’t rare anymore. Sometimes he woke up five or six times before he truly believed it. Sometimes he never did.

He would dream of waking up — brushing his teeth, feeding a cat, writing a story — only to wake up again in the same bed, repeating the same motions. He’d begun to wonder if he was just living inside an endless corridor of mornings that led nowhere.

“Good morning, Abigail,” he said automatically.

Then he froze.

Wait... I don’t have a cat.

The memory hit him like static: flashes of a gray tabby on his chest, purring, licking his hand. The warmth, the sound of the food bag crinkling. He could almost feel it.

Sometimes, these memories lingered long enough to make him act on them. A week ago, he had spent twenty dollars on cat food. He carried it home proudly — only to realize, standing in his doorway, that there was no Abigail. There never had been.

He laughed nervously, shaking his head. “Classic me.”

He made his way to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with the bleary reflection of someone who didn’t look quite right — same brown hair, same tired eyes, but duller somehow. His mouth felt like paper. He’d been waking up with that foul, dry film for days now. He brushed his teeth aggressively, watching the yellowish foam swirl down the sink.

“I don’t smoke,” he muttered, noticing a pack of cigarettes lying beside the faucet.

“I do,” said a voice — soft, almost playful.

Jay’s heart skipped. He looked up. His reflection stared back, unmoving.

“Not today,” he whispered, rinsing his mouth quickly. He reached for the medicine cabinet. Inside sat his daily pill organizer — color-coded by day, neat and reassuring. Routine was everything. Routine kept him safe.

He glanced at his phone to check the date. “Tuesday,” he said aloud.

“Tuesday,” the voice echoed faintly behind him — or inside him.

Jay didn’t respond this time. He simply opened the Tuesday slot, swallowed the pills with a big gulp of water, and waited for the dryness in his mouth to fade.

Give it time, the voice whispered.

“I will,” he said softly. Nobody else was in the house. It was only him. It was always only him.

Now that we have you here, the voice said, its tone almost coaxing, you should really work on that story.

Jay tried to ignore it, but the idea sparked anyway. The whale — the great creature in his dream, with galaxies on its back — lingered in his mind. A civilization living upon its skin. Stars twinkling in the folds of its body. A world that never questioned whether it was real.

“That’s... actually kind of wonderful,” he said, smiling faintly.

It does sound wonderful, the voice agreed.

He looked at his phone again. It read “11.” Yet the sun had not risen. The world outside remained dim and bluish.

“Well, I don’t go to work today,” Jay murmured. “So maybe I can write a few words while the sun rises. Yeah?”

Fantastic idea.

He shuffled to his office — a small, cluttered room filled with notebooks, scattered sketches, and the faint smell of coffee gone cold. His laptop was already open on the desk. The screen glowed softly, words blinking in the middle of a blank document:

Flying whale. Not real. Great story.

Jay frowned. “Must’ve been sleepwalking. Again.” He laughed nervously. “At least dream-me and I have the same idea.”

Or maybe he’s the real one, whispered the voice.

He ignored it. The laptop beeped — low battery.

“Drat.” Jay scanned the shadows for his charger.

Turn the light on.

“Now there’s a thought,” he said, flipping the switch. The bulb flickered, flooding the room with harsh yellow light. The charger wasn’t on the desk, nor the floor, nor behind the chair.

“Not again,” he groaned.

You know where to look…

Jay sighed, his body moving before his mind decided. He walked to the cabinet near his bed — a narrow wooden thing he’d owned for years. The hinges creaked as he opened it.

A note, written in his handwriting, hung from the inside of the door:

DONT OPEN! SNAKE!

He felt his stomach tighten.

Oh, you better not open that, the voice whispered.

“I know this one isn’t real,” he said aloud. “I’d never own a snake. Not even in my dreams.”

Snakes are ewwy, the voice giggled, childlike.

“Indeed,” Jay said, chuckling dryly.

He opened the cabinet. No snake. Just the charger, hanging neatly from the rack, as if someone had placed it there on purpose.

“Aha,” he said.

Aha, echoed the voice.

Jay plugged in his laptop and watched the screen flicker back to life. “Still on,” he murmured. “Eleven o’clock and the sun still isn’t up.”

A.m.?

“Oh no…” He looked closer. 11 PM. He’d misread it. He hadn’t woken up at dawn — he’d woken up in the middle of the night. Again.

“Well,” he sighed, “since I’m up—”

Since you’re up, and you have the charger…

“No. I can’t write right now. I need to sleep. I work tomorrow.”

No you don’t.

“Oh. That’s right,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Day off.”

Jay looked around the room. The shadows pulsed slightly, breathing in rhythm with his thoughts. He could almost see shapes forming in them — outlines of faces he half-recognized, versions of himself.

He shook his head. “I really should sleep. I need it. Especially after all the confusion.”

Without thinking, he unplugged the charger and returned it to the cabinet, reattaching the note carefully.

He lay in bed again, opening the shutters so the sunrise could greet him. Counting backward from one hundred — a trick his therapist had taught him — he let his breathing slow.

One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight...

A soft light pressed against his eyelids. Too soon.

‘Rise and shine,’ the voice whispered.

He opened his eyes. The room glowed gold.

“But I had just fallen asleep,” he whispered. Yet his body felt rested, light. His mind clearer, quieter — though not silent.

He checked his phone. “7 AM,” he read aloud.

‘Now it’s your day off,’ the voice purred.

“Yes,” Jay said, smiling faintly. “And now I can write that story. But first, I need to feed Abigail.”

Right on cue, the cat meowed from the corner of the bed, tail curling around its paws, eyes bright with hunger.