By Sophie Du

I am no stranger to dreams. I am no stranger to dreaming. I recall once, at a young age, falling asleep in my mother’s arms and dreaming of eating fairy-floss at the carnival. When I awoke at age seven, I awoke with disappointment at the narrow possibility of time to get fairy-floss. My mother was not there when I awoke. I awoke cold and alone on the hard mattress. She had left. At age eleven, I had a recurring dream of my mother. She was holding little me, and I had fairy-floss in my hands. I was eleven and watching.

At eleven, I awoke and never dreamed of fairy floss or my mother again.

I had not dreamed from years onward—I had not dared to—but there was this night, in the quiet of my room, I dreamt of a warm grasp. I awoke in a cold sweat, not knowing what that had meant. The following week, my house-mate had hugged me for their birthday present I prepared. The warmth began to feel familiar, and I knew then what it had meant. I began to dream again. 

I could not look them in the eye, ashamed that I had been grasping for their fleeting figure in my dreams. I told myself that this was childish; however, I did not stop dreaming. I dreamt of gentle hands, fluttering caresses, and love like my mother willed when I was seven and she bought me fairy-floss from the carnival. 

I began to stay up at unnecessary hours, needing necessary sleep, but I forced myself not to fall asleep in the gaping jaws of dreaming. My house-mate was, of course, concerned, but I had stringed together an empty reassurance to keep them at bay. Was I reassuring them or myself? I decided not to answer on that.

My house-mate moved out weeks later, and I fell asleep.

I do not recall how much I slept, but I had dreamed again after such strenuous awakeness that it seemed disappointing to fall asleep so easily. I dreamed and did not see fairy-floss from the carnival. I did not see my mother, nor did I see my housemate.

I saw myself and a mirror. I saw myself in the mirror, and it is embarrassing to admit I had not recognised myself. Who had I become? I had not slept a wink, colouring my skin pale and my eyes dark. I do not think I have left my room in a long time. Had I had a proper meal? I can feel my flesh clinging to my bones and the blood pumping in me—not flowing like the Nile but rather like a volcano, threatening to implode. 

I awoke, and I was not on my bed where I had fallen asleep. I am on the floor, and I am in front of the mirror in my room. There is a line of blood leaking from my left nostril. 

I remember a saying my professor had said to me in psychology class, “Dreams make us wonder; dreams open possibilities; dreams make us believe in a better future.” I wonder if I dream differently from my professor—or anyone, really. My dreams tear my chest open, leaving my soul bare as the blood drowns me violently, because my dreams give me false hope, closed possibilities, dares me not to wonder, and it forces me to face foreign things like loss, hope, and love. Foreign things that will bring me down to my knees where I will beg for mercy because I have dreamed for far too long and I do not wish to wonder, I do not wish for open possibilities, and certainly most of all, I do not believe in my better future.

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Sophie Du is a sixteen year old girl living a mundane life in Australia. To escape from reality, she writes in all of her free time. Sophie usually shies away from sharing her work, but a step in the writing industry like this, no matter how small, is her beginning.