Elizabeth Shannon

Last night I had a dream which, for reasons unknown, left me reeling with fear (and sweaty!).  In a far worse state than any nightmare I have experienced!

I was stood on the top of a small hill looking over a mist covered valley. It was dawn. The sun was just rising and a honey shimmer was appearing over the landscape in front of me. I watched it creep slowly towards me and, eventually, I could feel its warm caress on my arms and face. But I wasn’t warm. In front of me the scene spoke beauty in every inch but I knew that behind me things were playing out a little differently. A cold chill prickled at the base of my spine warning me of an unseen danger.

I remember knowing, instinctively, someone was stood not very far behind.  Someone I feared.  I found myself frozen – unable to breath or move.

A chill voice spoke ‘Hello Eliza’

I closed my eyes. Now I knew it had to be a dream. My heart was pounding, and every inch of my skin prickled. I was scared. I remember thinking

I shouldn’t fear her, it was insane I should fear her. Yet, here I was, terrified she was stood behind me. I tried to push my fear down, told myself that all I had to do was remind myself I had created her. This girl, this person behind me, was nothing but a figment of my imagination.

A shrill laugh broke the silence ‘Oh my dear Eliza, that’s exactly why you do fear me you silly girl’

A part of me does wonder if my fear was not of the character herself but in what she has come to repesent. After all I have often felt the ability to write was an elusive skill enjoyed by others, not me. The imagination I have, a story teller I most certainly am, but a writer? The jury is still out.

Being able to remember ones dreams and nightmares long after they have occured can be both a blessing and a curse. Many of the tales I have spun over the course of the last twenty years have had their foundation in a dream or a nightmare, including the triology I am writing at the moment. One dream which has stuck with me over the years but I have never worked with is as follows – the details of which are as vivid as the night the dream occured some 15 years ago.

The dream seemed to be centred around a story I was writing set in a prison and I seemed to shift between playing the writer, the central character and the observer. It was as though I was free spirit randomly moving between the three individuals, experiencing their lives for but a few seconds at a time.

As the dream begins I find myself sat at a desk in a darkened room, the only source of light is a small table lamp at my side. I have the feeling others are in the room with me, yet, when I turn and look around no one is present. The feeling remains with me and I find it hard to concentrate on the paragraph of the book I am working on. I conclude the piece I am writing and read back. It clearly is horrendous because I delete is straight away and shut down the computer without saving.

In a flash I find myself sat on the lower bunk in a prison cell. I am in a dicussion with a man in the bunk above me.  I express the hope of having the book I am working on published one day when I am released. Although once again I appear to be a writer I do not believe I am the same person as previously, not least because I was a female writer before and now I am distinctly male and in prison.

I shift again and become a third person in the room watching the two men on the bunk interact. The prison cell is bare with blue walls and heavy wooden bunk beds. As I watch I soon become aware of intense hatred and loathing eminating from the man on the upper bunk. I have never felt such a sense of pure hatred eminating from an individual before.

I only experience this third character, the observer, for a split second before I am whisked back to the man on the lower bunk. He is still talking to the man in the upper bunk and is, apparently, unaware of the strength of hatred this individual feels for him and his words. Eventually, almost out of the blue, my character asks the man what the others childhood was like.

A voice, dark and full of pure hatred, comes from the direction of the upper bunk. ‘Anger and Hate. Fear and Pain’. He then leaps down and grabs the other (me) by the throat and slings me across the room.

I hit the wall and, after a sharp blinding pain, open my eyes to discover I am once again the writer.  I am sat in front of my desk once more but, unlike before, I can see them. It feels like I am in a theatre, a very small dark theatre. I turn my attention to the two men, aware also that the observer is also now present. I hear the man from the upper bunk scream the word ‘death’, and I freeze. An icicle of fear has pierced my heart and I cannot breath. I turn rapidly to the notes in front of me; feeling confused. I quickly re-read the last paragraph in the chapter and am shocked to find it was the paragraph I had deleted – this scene should not have been taking place!

As I attempt to edit the chapter to solve the problem I suddenly become aware of the man from the upper bunk approaching my desk. For a split second I once again jump into the his body and experience the thought “You will pay” before I wake up.