N is for... Nightmare

Hey Kerry,

Thanks for the email, glad to know things are going well in the new job. Those photos of your weekend away look amazing, sounds like just the break you needed.

I am OK; the only odd thing is that I’ve been having this recurring dream – a nightmare – about my flat being haunted. You know me, I’ve never believed in ghosts and I’m not about to start now, but the way this dream is insinuating itself into my mind is starting to wear on me. I say recurring, but it’s more of a soap opera of a dream, each incidence moving things along a little. I’ve lived alone long enough not to jump at every bump in the night, or cower under the duvet in the darkness but as the dream has been developing I’ve got less and less sleep.

It started a while ago. I think I mentioned ending that confusing situation with a chap. It was the same old argument, the same accusation – you’re too independent, you never show any need or vulnerability, those male friends of yours – which could have made it any one of a number of confusing situations with chaps in recent years. I’m sure you’re as bored of reading it as I am of writing it. I don’t know what happened in the world of dating, either the world changed or I did, but it seems a girl who doesn’t squeal at horror movies or wait for someone else to dispatch the spiders from the shower is in no way a keeper and deemed profoundly unattractive. But, independence is a hard habit to break, it appears. So anyway, this chap – let’s call him Jack (Jack of all lays, maybe) - had embarked on the usual pattern. It starts with initial enthusiasm, moves into a dickish lack of communication, ends with an accusation of why it’s all my fault and that same old display of faux sensitivity…. Have I any idea how hard it is to be a man? Of course I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet it’s not as hard for these man-children as it is for a single woman in her thirties, steeling her spine every time she swipes on the mascara and steps into a new pair of heels. But enough of that.

“There’s something wrong with you,” he spat as I calmly held out his jacket, determined to stop the tears from falling until he was out of sight. (Never let them see you sweat, right?!) “Most people, their biggest fear is being alone, but for you, the worst thing is to have someone always there. You just can’t bear to think you might need someone in your life, or that their presence might mess up this perfect world of yours.”

“I’ve been with men who make me feel more alone than if I’m on my own – that feeling scares me more than a few nights in front of the TV with no one to make tea during the adverts.”

“You need to be a bit more afraid of being alone, that’s your problem.”

“Yep, I’m sure it is. Bye now.” The flat echoed with the slam of the door as he left and I stood for a moment in the following silence before I went to run a bath. Pyjamas, book, bed. That’s what was called for, and that’s exactly what I did, but then that night the dreams started.

Anyway, better go, I’m out seeing a band tonight and I’m meant to be painting my nails.

Take care,

Zx

*             *             *

Hey again,

You are way too superstitious for me!! I wasn’t scared to tell you my dream, I thought the lack of sleep was the more salient point, but if you want to know it’s like this - I am asleep in my bed and I hear a noise from the living room which wakes me up. When I walk in, a vase of flowers has been knocked from the book case, water all over the floor and CDs scattered in the puddle. I pad to the kitchen, wincing as I touch the cold floor with my bare feet. I refill the vase, wipe the CDs and return them to their places. Then I wake up. Each night for a week the dream continued, always the same – although the flowers changed according to what I put in the vase and what CDs had been on the stereo that day. It didn’t really scare me, I was more just tired from the broken sleep. After a week of it, it’s now Sunday and I spent hours at the gym – trudging on the treadmill, lifting weights, swimming lap after lap in the pool until every muscle in my body ached. That should get rid of the ghouls in my head – I’ve always found sport more horrific!

Zx

*             *             *

Well, hello there Miss Kerry,

Lovely to hear from you. No, sadly no better on the sleep front. Maybe you’re right and I should see a doctor, but it feels daft when there’s nothing actually wrong with me. What was the last thing I told you? So Sunday, post-gym; my limbs felt heavy when I went to bed that night and I welcomed the blank oblivion of a dreamless sleep. I hear a noise from the living room which wakes me up. When I walk in, a vase of flowers has been knocked from the book case, water all over the floor and CDs scattered in the puddle. I pad to the kitchen, wincing as I touch the cold floor with my bare feet. I refill the vase, wipe the CDs and return them to their places. I wait to wake, but when that doesn’t happen I turn, a tight heat in my neck and shoulders from all that time the gym (yes, I know, warm up and cool down…) and catch the glimpse of a face, both familiar and unknown to me. He nods down to the damp on the carpet. I shiver under his gaze, and then I wake up.

It took a long time to get back to sleep after that and I felt as if trapped under a weighted duvet the next morning when the alarm went off but I dragged myself to work. I watched the people on the train, the faces in the office, trying to pick out the person I’d seen in my dream. It was an irritation to me, niggling away like when you see a familiar actor in a film and spend hours trying to remember what you saw them in last. I got through the day and headed home for an early night, hoping to have the dream again so that I could place the person who appeared in it and finally stop thinking about the whole thing. The dream came again and again, night after night – the fall of the vase, the glimpse of the face – lingering longer each time it seemed. After five nights, it seemed like I was just close to placing him when my phone cut through the dream and my sleep and I was startled awake. A text from “Jack”, obviously wondering if my independent ways extended to lax rules on booty calls from people who had insulted me. I turned off the phone and turned over, dragging all the duvet over to my side of the bed and holding it close, hoping to resume the dream again, but I remember nothing until the alarm in the morning.

Bloody man, the nerve of him. I’m starting to wonder what I ever saw in him.

Zx

*             *             *

Hello,

I am so sorry I’ve been out of touch. I had some time owing from work and decided to take some leave – a whole fortnight to myself. I’ve not been anywhere, just off the grid a bit. I’m not sure yet whether it’s been as good for me as I hoped. I’ve been to the gym each day, met various friends for lunches and coffees – Laura says hello! - watched film after film in the cinema; you know how I love the anonymity of the dark. It was nice not being me for a while. The flowers died in the vase and I decided it was time to try again with a plant – you know my track record with these things but it’s been years since I’d tried to keep one alive. The funny thing is, the dream changed, too. I hear a noise from the living room which wakes me up. When I walk in, the plant which replaced the vase of flowers has been knocked from the book case, soil all over the floor and CDs scattered in the mess. I scoop up the earth and pad to the kitchen, wincing as I touch the cold floor with my bare feet. I add some water to the plant, rinse the CDs and return them to their places. I wait for the face, and it appears. I wait to wake, but still the face remains and a rangy form emerges from the dark. A man with authority, long legs and broad shoulders standing tall in front of me; his eyes follow me as I move around the room, returning CDs to their cases.

“I don’t know your name,” I say. I wake up.

The next night, the same dream – noise, mess on the floor, the tacky cold of the kitchen tiles, waiting to wake, speaking, waiting again to wake. This time, he replies to my question by casually knocking a stack of files from my desk and surveying the jumble of papers on the floor. I wake up.

By this point, I’ve started seeing the face everywhere I go. His reflection flashed in the mirror of the gym while I puffed and sweated on the treadmill; I wiped the sweat from my eyes and he was gone. I would catch a glimpse of something familiar from the dark of the cinema but when the lights went up there would be no one there. I was at the supermarket and something about the sure tread of a shopper in front of me made me follow him. I rounded the corner to the next aisle and there was nothing but a woman desperately trying to placate two screaming toddlers with a punnet of grapes. I don’t know what I was expecting – George Clooney with a bunch of flowers from the half off bin? Get a grip, Zoe. Next time I’ll take your advice and go away on holiday, so something improving and meet some new people.

Zx

*             *             *

Hey there – you know, I think we both need to stop talking about this dream thing, it’s turning into an obsession. It’s the same, but it keeps changing - I watch as he calmly moves around the flat, this easy poltergeist with his beautiful, fluid limbs knocking over the plant, smiling as the files come tumbling down from the desk, moving on to remove pictures gently from their hangers before dropping them with violence to the floor, sweeping pots and pans from their tidy row of hooks, a taunting of knives glittering on the floor, upended shampoo poured on the bath mat, a slick of face mask smeared across the mirror. Each night a little more destruction, and each night I sit enthralled by the dream as he watches me. His gaze is more intimate than a kiss and has the same effect. Over and over I ask his name and he smiles, sending a warm tingle down my spine at the tantalising flash of teeth.

If I’m honest, I think the dream was becoming more vivid to me than the real world. I looked forward to each night, desperate to know the name of this creature whose gaze turned me inside out. I know, Poltergeist meets Twilight, right? Pathetic. On Friday night, only one last weekend to enjoy before going back to the order of the office, I enjoyed a glass of wine in the bath and smothered myself in that lovely scented body cream you bought me for my birthday before going to bed. He comes again, stealing into my dreams, crashing my world of tidy things to the floor. He turns away and I cry out for the loss of his gaze, but he looks back over one broad shoulder and as he moves I follow him into my bedroom. He is already tearing clothes from the wardrobe and cupboards, scattering cashmere jumpers and silk underwear as if they were rags. He looks at me, and I take off my pyjamas and throw them onto the growing pile on the floor. I walk towards him and he ranges his hands over every curve of my body, takes his time, pushes me onto the bed. The jasmine scent of my body cream fills the air and I arch my back. Just before he is about to sink himself inside me I whisper, “Your name, tell me your name.” I feel the short bristle of hair from his chin on my face and the heat from his breath in my ear, “My name would mean your death, do you want to know?” I gasp as he enters me, close my eyes in acquiescence. I wake up, feeling like my limbs have been fresh fitted and squirming with unfinished business.

So, ahem, I think we can conclude that what this all means is probably that I need a boyfriend, right? I certainly do now, there’s only so many cold showers a girl can take.

Take care,

Zx

*             *             *

Hello again – lovely to hear from you, love the new haircut. 

No, the dream hasn’t come back. I went back to work after the weekend. The plant died as I think deep down I had always known it would and so I’m back to fresh flowers. I’m sleeping soundly again. I flirted with a man on the train who has the same commute although I still can’t work out if he’s straight or gay – oh! And I gave my number to a nice boy in a bar who was probably too young, really, but you’re always telling me to give these things a chance so I’ll let you know if he calls. Already that tempting, handsome face faded in my memory and now I can’t even remember the name he told me. Still, fun while it lasted.

Speaking of fun, we need to organise a visit, I am sure I can get up to you for a long weekend, it would be so nice to catch up. Let me know when’s good for you.

See you soon,

Zx

*             *             *

The night before she is due to visit Kerry, Zoe hears a noise from the living room which wakes her up. When she walks in, a vase of flowers has been knocked from the book case, water all over the floor and CDs scattered in the puddle. She pads to the kitchen, wincing as her bare feet touch the cold floor. She refills the vase, wipes the CDs and returns them to their places.

She is waiting to wake up.