Short Story: The Cracks of Consciousness
I am normal. If you met me on the street, I’d shake your hand, smile, and hold a pleasant conversation. You’d think back to the interaction fondly, then your mind would file it away. Without further interaction, you would forget me. I am normal. I live my life, enjoy the things I enjoy, and hate the things I hate. I have opinions, feelings, thoughts. I am normal. I have friends and family that care for me and support me.
I am normal–Until I fall asleep.
When I rest my eyes, and drift into the world of dreams, I get caught like a fly in an ancient spider’s web. I try to shake myself free, but the struggle only pulls me deeper into the trap. I do not sleep, I slip through the cracks of consciousness and find myself at the crossroads of wakeful dreaming. People tell me that my mind makes this up–they’re wrong. I know it.
When I open my eyes, I see the world around me, but it is altered. Sometimes I see the walls crumble, and watch with dread as thousands of giant gnarled spiders flood the room. They never touch me–they don’t have to. Their presence is enough. I flee, but they chase me. Sweat covers my body as I struggle to keep my breath. I run, and I run, and I run, until I find another person. The presence of other people always makes the spiders go away. They vanish, leaving me to face the poor individual I’ve come across.
It’s always the same. The person looks at me with worried eyes and asks if I’m okay. I lie and tell them I was sleepwalking. This works when I don’t destroy things. Once, a demon appeared in my room. It glowed an ominous orange, like dying light, or the tip of a flame. It taunted me until I chased it. When the monster flew through a wall, I punched at it repeatedly. I heard it laugh as my fist went red with blood. My brother heard the noise and came to investigate. My fist was still in the wall when he flipped the light on.
“What are you doing?” He’d asked.
“Nothing,” I said, “go back to bed. Everything’s fine.”
I expected him to inquire further, but he didn’t. Instead, he slowly shut the door, and never asked me about it again. When I pulled my fist from the wall, a soft orange glow emanated from it, then slowly faded away, leaving me staring at my bloody knuckles and a wall riddled with fist sized holes.
