| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted June 25, 2023 |
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Is it really a dream, or a nightmare?
The End and the Beginning
by Loretta Bigg
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
Part One: The End
Sam Stiller played with his belly hair between cracked fingernails. Bad habit: it reminded him how old and fat he was getting.
Mollie lay beside him, wrapped like a corpse in their white duvet. The cloth reflected the beam of a streetlight from their picture window so he could see her well.
He'd never liked this room. Mollie had designed it herself, papering the walls in pink with little umbrellas in rainbow colors. The room was over-full of pseudo antique furniture and even a canopy bed. "I've wanted one since I was ten," she'd cooed in that little girl voice like his annoying sister used to have.
Walking in this room could be hazardous as well. His feet would settle into the carpet, making it hard to walk. Was this bedroom a penance for his sins? "I'm not as bad as that," he murmured.
Mollie snored away, in-out, little puff-whistles through fat cheeks. More bad karma. They'd made love, gentle, mournful, clumsy, first time in over two months. Forgive me," he had meant to whisper, already failing her. Instead, the hated name, Susan, slipped out.
She answered with an exhale and a whimper, "slower, slower, please slow down." And then, "No big deal."
Susan had been a bolt of passion, rough, on top of him, pulling at his nipples, tickling under his arms till he winced with pleasure. Susan had been the right thing, the new thing, and then the really wrong thing when she'd called Mollie with all the deets.
A week passed before Mollie got the invitation he'd sent Susan. "Come on! We'll rent a hotel! I'll leave Mollie! I swear!"
She'd called again after Mollie had picked up the package she'd left on the doorstep with his pyjamas inside, and a one word note: "Proof."
"That was your whore again," Mollie said. "Finish this. Now."
So he'd sent Susan a Dear Jane. She'd answered that very afternoon. "You're not ending this, asshole."
"Susan, you were just a..."
"I'm gonna keep calling your wife. And I'm coming to see her in person for a nice, cozy family chat, together, kids and all. I will not be replaced, mister."
She never showed, but she also never stopped, e-mails, packages, to him, to Mollie, to the kids, to his parents. One night, she'd broken a window and dripped blood on the plushy carpet, smashed Mollie's prized china. She'd left scratch marks on his truck and kicked in the cat door. Spray-painted Cunt! on their garage door. Sent Mollie a photograph, even though he couldn't remember her taking out a camera on top while he was yelling, "Yes, yes, oh, yes."
Mollie and he no longer lived alone. A living ghost of Susan had infiltrated everything. They now slept in separate rooms most nights; she said their together room reeked of Susan.
But despite hating that bitch, he couldn't blame her. After all, he had invited her, he'd made up that lie that he'd leave his wife, and he'd written, "Come!"
And, in truth, he wanted that one night back again.
He watched his wife as she slept next to him in a bed that was no longer his. He remembered the night before, the hurried apologies, the closed eyes and tense lips. Mollie had made him dinner, watched him eat it, all his favourites, and then before he could go to his penance room, she'd taken his hand and pulled him in.
Her newlywed nightgown was faded yellow from too many washes. She lay on the bed and scrunched her eyes tight. Their love-making had been like her breathing: quick, in, out, a held gift offered too late. All-thumbs love, but he still wanted her. He told himself he wanted her. He hoped she could forget about Susan. He hoped he could forget about her, too.
But he'd called out the wrong name. And for a long time afterward he hadn't slept, thinking about Susan, Susan, Susan.
While she snored, he asked Mollie for real: "Forgive me?"
The soft down of fuzz over her lip puffed. He thought he heard. "Yes."
Susan, Susan, Susan.
After another hour he heard her getting up. She dressed without a word and kissed his forehead. After a moment, door slam. Just as well; he never slept comfortably lying next to her, not with that snoring and past lies of Susan in this very bed.
Maybe he would fall asleep before she came back from the toilet or whatever.
And he shut his eyes and fell into a dream.
In this dream, he stood in the middle of an immense forest, fir trees, the sky blocked by threatening rainclouds. He lay on the ground because he wanted to see the little piece of sky that showed through the branches. From where he lay, something moved above, a bright, burning beam, like a flashlight. It made him wince.
He looked harder at the sky. No rainclouds: A large golden hand appeared, pointing down at him. He couldn't move, he couldn't get away. The hand held a flaming sword.
"It's a nightmare, stupid," he said to his dreaming self. "There aren't any hands in the sky. They don't hold flaming swords. There is no God that's going to punish you."
He started to laugh in his sleep. But where was his wife in all this mess?
"Mollie?" Then he remembered she'd gone. The hall clock struck three times, bong, bong, bong. Looking up, he caught sight of someone standing by the bed, holding a flashlight, backlit from the hall light, a silhouette. Saw a shadow gun pointed at him, the gun he'd bought for protection.
"Bang!" He laughed, figuring it was another nightmare. He pointed one finger in the air. "Weren't you a flaming sword a minute ago?" Bong, bong, went the clock, and then bang.
He saw the blood on his hands and screamed. The second shot knocked him into the pillows. What looked like a mass of flesh hung right above his right eye. He wondered if it was his brains. It looked like brains.
The silhouette laughed. "A fib, as usual. I knew it." Then fire, like a flaming sword, pushed him under.
"So much for retirement" was his last thought. He was amazed at how long it took him to die, until he did.
Part Two: The Beginning
Mollie woke from a nightmare in the middle of the night. She'd dreamt that she could hear her husband being murdered in the next room. She'd woke to darkness and half a bong from the hall clock.
Picking up the flashlight she kept on the night table for protection, she got up to go to the toilet, but turned on a thought. Sam was sound asleep, moaning, caught in his own nightmare.
"Let him sleep," she said to herself. "Let him sleep through it."
When she came back, her flashlight caught sight of a metallic lump on the night table. She moved closer and saw that stupid gun he kept for protection.
She'd told him how many times? Statistics: most gunshot deaths were suicide, accidents, or spousal murder. But he'd just answered, "The gun's not loaded, stupid." He called her stupid more times than he called her Susan by mistake.
"Probably another thing he lied about," she thought. "Fibs about everything."
Of course there was one way to find out if he was telling the truth for once. That made her laugh for the first time in years. "Yeah, lets see if he lied about this unloaded gun?"
She walked over and grabbed the gun with both hands, like a flaming sword, while his eyelids fluttered in a dead man's dream.
She was amazed at how long it took him to die, until he did.
Dream Story contest entry
Part One: The End
Sam Stiller played with his belly hair between cracked fingernails. Bad habit: it reminded him how old and fat he was getting.
Mollie lay beside him, wrapped like a corpse in their white duvet. The cloth reflected the beam of a streetlight from their picture window so he could see her well.
He'd never liked this room. Mollie had designed it herself, papering the walls in pink with little umbrellas in rainbow colors. The room was over-full of pseudo antique furniture and even a canopy bed. "I've wanted one since I was ten," she'd cooed in that little girl voice like his annoying sister used to have.
Walking in this room could be hazardous as well. His feet would settle into the carpet, making it hard to walk. Was this bedroom a penance for his sins? "I'm not as bad as that," he murmured.
Mollie snored away, in-out, little puff-whistles through fat cheeks. More bad karma. They'd made love, gentle, mournful, clumsy, first time in over two months. Forgive me," he had meant to whisper, already failing her. Instead, the hated name, Susan, slipped out.
She answered with an exhale and a whimper, "slower, slower, please slow down." And then, "No big deal."
She answered with an exhale and a whimper, "slower, slower, please slow down." And then, "No big deal."
Susan had been a bolt of passion, rough, on top of him, pulling at his nipples, tickling under his arms till he winced with pleasure. Susan had been the right thing, the new thing, and then the really wrong thing when she'd called Mollie with all the deets.
A week passed before Mollie got the invitation he'd sent Susan. "Come on! We'll rent a hotel! I'll leave Mollie! I swear!"
She'd called again after Mollie had picked up the package she'd left on the doorstep with his pyjamas inside, and a one word note: "Proof."
"That was your whore again," Mollie said. "Finish this. Now."
So he'd sent Susan a Dear Jane. She'd answered that very afternoon. "You're not ending this, asshole."
"Susan, you were just a..."
"I'm gonna keep calling your wife. And I'm coming to see her in person for a nice, cozy family chat, together, kids and all. I will not be replaced, mister."
She never showed, but she also never stopped, e-mails, packages, to him, to Mollie, to the kids, to his parents. One night, she'd broken a window and dripped blood on the plushy carpet, smashed Mollie's prized china. She'd left scratch marks on his truck and kicked in the cat door. Spray-painted Cunt! on their garage door. Sent Mollie a photograph, even though he couldn't remember her taking out a camera on top while he was yelling, "Yes, yes, oh, yes."
Mollie and he no longer lived alone. A living ghost of Susan had infiltrated everything. They now slept in separate rooms most nights; she said their together room reeked of Susan.
But despite hating that bitch, he couldn't blame her. After all, he had invited her, he'd made up that lie that he'd leave his wife, and he'd written, "Come!"
And, in truth, he wanted that one night back again.
He watched his wife as she slept next to him in a bed that was no longer his. He remembered the night before, the hurried apologies, the closed eyes and tense lips. Mollie had made him dinner, watched him eat it, all his favourites, and then before he could go to his penance room, she'd taken his hand and pulled him in.
Her newlywed nightgown was faded yellow from too many washes. She lay on the bed and scrunched her eyes tight. Their love-making had been like her breathing: quick, in, out, a held gift offered too late. All-thumbs love, but he still wanted her. He told himself he wanted her. He hoped she could forget about Susan. He hoped he could forget about her, too.
But he'd called out the wrong name. And for a long time afterward he hadn't slept, thinking about Susan, Susan, Susan.
While she snored, he asked Mollie for real: "Forgive me?"
The soft down of fuzz over her lip puffed. He thought he heard. "Yes."
Susan, Susan, Susan.
After another hour he heard her getting up. She dressed without a word and kissed his forehead. After a moment, door slam. Just as well; he never slept comfortably lying next to her, not with that snoring and past lies of Susan in this very bed.
Maybe he would fall asleep before she came back from the toilet or whatever.
And he shut his eyes and fell into a dream.
In this dream, he stood in the middle of an immense forest, fir trees, the sky blocked by threatening rainclouds. He lay on the ground because he wanted to see the little piece of sky that showed through the branches. From where he lay, something moved above, a bright, burning beam, like a flashlight. It made him wince.
He looked harder at the sky. No rainclouds: A large golden hand appeared, pointing down at him. He couldn't move, he couldn't get away. The hand held a flaming sword.
"It's a nightmare, stupid," he said to his dreaming self. "There aren't any hands in the sky. They don't hold flaming swords. There is no God that's going to punish you."
He started to laugh in his sleep. But where was his wife in all this mess?
"Mollie?" Then he remembered she'd gone. The hall clock struck three times, bong, bong, bong. Looking up, he caught sight of someone standing by the bed, holding a flashlight, backlit from the hall light, a silhouette. Saw a shadow gun pointed at him, the gun he'd bought for protection.
"Bang!" He laughed, figuring it was another nightmare. He pointed one finger in the air. "Weren't you a flaming sword a minute ago?" Bong, bong, went the clock, and then bang.
He saw the blood on his hands and screamed. The second shot knocked him into the pillows. What looked like a mass of flesh hung right above his right eye. He wondered if it was his brains. It looked like brains.
The silhouette laughed. "A fib, as usual. I knew it." Then fire, like a flaming sword, pushed him under.
"So much for retirement" was his last thought. He was amazed at how long it took him to die, until he did.
Part Two: The Beginning
Mollie woke from a nightmare in the middle of the night. She'd dreamt that she could hear her husband being murdered in the next room. She'd woke to darkness and half a bong from the hall clock.
Picking up the flashlight she kept on the night table for protection, she got up to go to the toilet, but turned on a thought. Sam was sound asleep, moaning, caught in his own nightmare.
"Let him sleep," she said to herself. "Let him sleep through it."
When she came back, her flashlight caught sight of a metallic lump on the night table. She moved closer and saw that stupid gun he kept for protection.
She'd told him how many times? Statistics: most gunshot deaths were suicide, accidents, or spousal murder. But he'd just answered, "The gun's not loaded, stupid." He called her stupid more times than he called her Susan by mistake.
"Probably another thing he lied about," she thought. "Fibs about everything."
Of course there was one way to find out if he was telling the truth for once. That made her laugh for the first time in years. "Yeah, lets see if he lied about this unloaded gun?"
She walked over and grabbed the gun with both hands, like a flaming sword, while his eyelids fluttered in a dead man's dream.
She was amazed at how long it took him to die, until he did.
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