Body Bag

This story contains themes of death and psychological distress, which may be unsettling to some readers.

I wake up screaming. I sit up in bed, my hands quaking. My pillow is drenched with cold sweat and tears. 

“It’s just a dream, Joseph. You are still alive,” my wife says with a yawn and falls promptly back asleep. My night terrors no longer phase her. I can’t blame her. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a recurring nightmare of my death. 

I wish I could go back to sleep but couldn’t risk it. The dream feels so real. It is too vivid. Too… accurate. 

I look at the time on my phone. Only 38 minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. I kiss my wife gently on her forehead and get out of bed. I head to my computer and try to look up the lyrics to find the song that plays in my dream as I die. With quaking hands, I slowly and incorrectly type the words I remember into Google. 

“Our world’s about to end but it doesn’t have to be a drag.

Dance like our heart’s about to beat its last. 

One day we’ll be dead so tonight let’s have a blast.

Our future is in a body bag. 

Wa-oh, our future is in a body bag.”

The search results for the song comes up empty. Again. Knowing that this song does not exist brings me comfort that what I saw was not a vision, but rather the way a hypochondriac with control issues tries to make sense of the world. 

I massage my temples and close my eyes. My family’s screams from my dream tear through my peace. I quickly open my eyes. The screams persist. Remembering what my therapist taught me, I hug myself and begin breathing exercises. 

“This moment is real,” I tell myself. “This moment is real.” 

I finally calm down just as the alarm goes off. Perfect timing. I jump into the shower and let the hot water sooth my soul. I stay standing for a while, pretending that the steam are clouds and I am flying. My nightmare once again recedes into my memory. 

By the time I am done, my wife, Maya, is in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Smells delicious. I get dressed and go downstairs to see my twin kids already awake and watching television. I always knew I would have one boy and one girl.I saw them in my recurring dream. Saw their faces in horror as they witness their dad experience an aneurysm in front of their eyes. 

I rub my temples, trying to suppress the fears that stem from my nightmare. “It is just a dream.” I whisper to myself. For several minutes afterwards, I watch my kids watch Spongebob. I am one lucky man. 

The sweet moment is interrupted by Maya corralling us for a family breakfast. When I married her, she was blond and thought I had beaten my dream as the woman in the passenger seat was brunette. I later discovered that she was dying her hair. She is beautiful no matter her hair color. 

“I made something special,” my wife says. The way she said it, while wearing a periwinkle pajamas, that triggered a sense of déjà vu. Like I dreamed this moment before. 

“S’mores pancakes,” we both said at the same time. 

No matter how often this happens, Maya is always left speechless. They may be dreams, but sometimes they do come true. 

I rub my temples, upset with myself for saying anything and ruining my wife’s moment. “Sorry, honey. Ignore me.” Maya walks over to me and kisses the top of my head, “Are you ok?” she whispers into my ear so not to worry the kids. 

Before I could respond, my son begins to demand pancakes. Soon, the weird moment has passed and we partake in sugary breakfast.

“What song is that again, daddy?” my daughter asks while we are eating. I hadn’t realized that I was humming the song from my dream. Despite the dark lyrics, it has a catchy tune. 

“It’s a song that came to me when was a kid.” I tell her. It technically is not a lie. My wife is not amused though. “Is that dream getting to you again?” she asks with furrowed brows. We almost broke up because of this dream when we were first dating, so it makes sense she is still worried. 

“I’m fine,” I respond. “I am more worried about seeing your parents today. Now that is a nightmare,” Maya’s eyes narrow as she tries to determine if I was joking or not. The smirk betrays me and is gives me a gentle backhand slap on my shoulder.

“No fighting!” my daughter reprimands. 

Maya and I kiss to show reconciliation. 

“No kissing!” my son protests. 

“Enough, you two. Go get dressed so we can head ove to your grandparents.”

I put on a black flannel shirt and blue jeans while Maya puts on a yellow blouse with black leggings. The kids are dressed in matching T-shirts emblazoned with the phrase, “Grandma’s favorite.” Something about everyone’s outfits seems familiar. A sense of déjà vu is creeping in. My collar feels too tight all of a sudden. I rub my temples as we head to the car. 

Once behind the wheel, I begin to have a panic attack. Flashes of my dream come to me. The car careening through the rail and into the sky. 

The screams.

The darkness. 

The fear that I would get an aneurysm while driving paralyzed most of my young adulthood. I thought I could I thought that if I never learned to drive, I could somehow prevent my fate. Eventually, under the pressure of my frustrated girlfriend and future wife, I went to therapy. 

“Breath,” I repeat. 

I feel my wife’s hands over mind. “It is a dream. You are fine. I love you.” She kisses my cheek. “Would you want me to drive?”

“No!” I bark, a little more forcefuly that I had intended. “I am not letting fear drive me anymore. Just give me a few minutes.”

As I build up my courage, my kids are shouting any word of encouragement they know.

“You got this dad!” they chant.

Finally, I shift the car into drive and get on the road. I turn on the radio as music helps distract me from my anxiety. 

About thirty minutes into the drive, the DJ announces that they are going to debut a new song from Lady Gaga called “Body Bag.” 

The moment the first note hits, I recognize the tune. 

“Hey! That’s your song,” my son shouts.

My head begins to throb. My heart races. There is no way my dream is coming true tonight. 

“Maya, I’m pulling over and we got to switch seats right now.” I yell. The intensity scares my daughter and she begins to cry.

“Okay, but try to stay calm,” My wife chides me. As I begin to look for a place to safely pull over. 

“Our world’s about to end but it doesn’t have to be a drag.”

In an instant, I feel my body give out. I am no longer in control.  

“Dance like our heart’s about to to beat it’s last.”

The car begins to swerve. Everyone in car is screaming except for me. All I can do is drool from my mouth. 

One day we’ll be dead so tonight let’s have a blast. 

The car hits the rail but it doesn’t stop. It keeps moving forward despite the lack of road. Gravity will soon plunge the car 20 feet to the ground. 

Our future is in a body bag. 

My family continues to scream in terror. 

Wa-oh, our future is in a body bag.”

The whole world goes dark. 

I wake up screaming. I sit up in bed, my hands quaking. My pillow is drenched with cold sweat and tears. 

“It’s just a dream, honey. You are still alive,” my wife says with a yawn and falls promptly back asleep. My night terrors no longer phase her. I can’t blame her. Ever since I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare of my death.