It’d been four years since I’d really slept, and it was killing me. Finding someone else to make eye contact with before going to sleep seemed like more work than it was worth, besides, the janitor of the Oakville Library was an old man. I’d seen the dreams of men like Mr. Flint before. The most exciting part was usually the new lawn mower they were using.

The instant his dream began I knew I’d been dead wrong.

A woman sprawled across the bed with one thin arm thrown over her eyes; her jeans tattered at the bottom from being too long for her short legs. Her white tank top was tugged up on one side leaving her stomach bare, exposed. She was pretty hot, until I noticed the wrinkles around her mouth and the small groups of grey hairs along her hairline. I groaned under my breath; sexy mom dreams are really not my thing.

The scene froze before me for a moment—the walls were light green; tiny pink and blue flowers on the sheets. I heard the thunder before the smell of damp cedar, and perfume filled my nostrils. Each sense came like a wave, crashing over me.  

Rain fell through the open window, pooling on the cedar chest below. Heavy green drapes rustled as they framed the darkness outside.

I never slept, never entered actual R.E.M. sleep. I just watched, a passive observer in the minds of others…seeing what they saw, feeling what they felt. I knew dreams like I knew my own skin.

And this wasn’t a normal dream.

Everything was crystal clear, with none of the typical haze that hovered over dreams. After four years of watching, I knew this level of detail could mean only one thing: Mr. Flint’s dream was based on a memory. His brain’s twisted analysis of the past thickened the air around me.

As he stood in the doorway watching her, his emotions crushed me. The janitor’s desperate, churning passions swept me in wave upon wave of sadness, anger, and betrayal. Each one hit stronger than the last until the pain eclipsed them all, unbearable, yet unchanging. Pain was life now. No hope remained. Pain smothered it along with everything else that reeked of happier times.

 I crouched low to the ground, clutching my side and panting. I knew better.

The room was charged with an unexplainable energy as the pain faded in the shade of more ominous emotions—hatred, combined with blood-pumping adrenaline, turned into the purest kind of rage I’d ever experienced.

I clawed at the ground as Mr. Flint’s fury ripped through me. His need to destroy, to make someone hurt the way he did, overwhelmed me.    

As he approached the bed, a glint in his hand caught my eye. He clutched a shining silver letter opener with a navy handle. Combined with the grim intent on his face, I’d never seen a more lethal looking weapon.

I fought his emotions and struggled to move, to hide from what I knew would come, but my efforts were futile. I couldn’t leave. I could close my eyes, but the emotions of the dreamer were the worst part and I couldn’t hide from them. If I didn’t see what was happening, my mind filled in the gaps. Too often the disturbing images I came up with were so much worse than the nightmare I was stuck in.

He held a pillow over her head as he stabbed the letter opener through her tank top three times. Her gurgling screams pierced the air and mixed with his grunts to create a horrific melody until all sound muffled to a whisper. I was swallowed by the stillness that followed like a juicy bug on the tongue of a toad.

It was over in seconds. As I tried to control my breathing, her blood spread from the triangle of wounds across the shirt and onto the floral sheets. My head hurt and my heart pounded painfully in my chest. This was too much. I couldn’t do this anymore.

His rage ended as abruptly as it came, leaving only despair behind. Mr. Flint held her hands in his and sobbed. Wracking moans gushed out of his body, drowning both of us in misery, barely allowing room for air.

I hated myself for pitying him, even though it was impossible not to when I felt his emotions. He was asleep, hovering in that place where boundaries between right and wrong blurred—but I wasn’t. Feeling sorry for a murderer made me sick, but it didn’t matter. His self-pity swamped me, over-powering my own revulsion.

This wasn’t the same man who’d begun the dream. There was a change in him, so strong I could feel it. He was a murderer now. He would never be the same person again. There was no coming back from this.

He was a reflection of my ability—my curse. I’d never be the same again, either.

I woke up coughing, my body covered in sweat. Curling in on myself, I wrapped one arm around my knees and tried to catch my breath. Why did I have to pick him? Why a murderer?

Being a watcher sucked, especially when everyone else was a dreamer. The worst part was, once you caught my eye, I couldn’t get free. No matter how much I wanted to escape, I was stuck with you for the night.

A loud thump rattled my door and I rolled out of bed.

“No school today, Mom, but I’m up.” My voice sounded croaky and exhausted even to me. I stumbled toward the bathroom taking deep breaths and forcing myself not to think about the horror I’d just experienced. In and out. In and out.

“It’s almost noon, your highness.” She yelled back from the kitchen. “Besides, Finn called. He said to wake you up and he’s on his way.”

I stopped in the middle of the hallway and rubbed my eye. “It’s almost eleven. Stop exaggerating or I’ll have to hire new help.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mom muttered.

I fought the urge to tell Mom, to tell anyone, about the memory I’d seen. As much as I’d like to go to the police and tell them I’d witnessed Mr. Flint murder his wife in a dream, the psych ward wasn’t my favorite weekend hangout.

I grabbed the newspaper off the table in the hall and took it in the bathroom. Cold seeped through the floor and into my feet while I flipped through the pages. There it was. Donna Marie Flint, born May 9, 1971, died last week during what appears to be a failed burglary attempt…Friends and family may pay their respects at the Oakville Mortuary on Tuesday—tomorrow. 

Mrs. Flint hadn’t been dead that long, but it was still too late to save her. There was nothing I could do. The police were on the wrong track with the burglary, but they would eventually figure out who did it without my help…I had to believe that.

I wondered what my obituary would say: Parker Daniel Chipp, a 16-year-old junior at Oakville High School, died of sleep deprivation. Or would it be listed as something lame like ‘natural causes?’ Either option was weak, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.

Cold water raced down my skin in rivulets, carrying away memories of the dream. Warm showers were a thing of the past now. I needed cold, so icy the water stabbed my skin like a thousand shards of glass. Most days it was the only way I could keep myself awake. I scrubbed my body raw and turned off the water. The abrasions helped me stay alert enough to function without any—incidents.

My footsteps echoed in the silent bathroom. As I dried my face I could actually feel the deep circles beneath my eyes, like they’d been there so long they’d hollowed me out. I shivered, pushing my messy blonde hair off my forehead, trying to see if I looked any worse than the day before. The answer? Yes. Was there anything I could do about it? No.

Tugging on my jeans and navy sweatshirt, I walked into the kitchen. It smelled like citrus and berries, fresh fruit, Mom’s favorite breakfast. She glanced up with a grin when I passed, but it slid from her face when her eyes met mine. I knew what she was thinking. Her constant worrying was the reason I only watched her dreams when I had no other choice. 

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yep.” I nodded and looked away from the concern in her eyes.

Mom stepped in front of me and placed the back of one hand on my forehead. With a sigh, she brought it down and twisted her lips to one side. “Well, you feel fine…”

I grabbed her shoulders, smiled, and stared her straight in the eye. This early in the day, it didn’t matter who I made eye contact with. I was safe, for now.

“That’s because I am fine.”

She stuck her fist under her chin and moved it back and forth as she watched me hunt through the kitchen for some breakfast. I knew that look. I’d seen her look at Dad that way so many times before he left—it was impossible to forget.

The first year he was gone, Mom had been so upset; she’d thrown herself into her work. I was always fed and taken care of, but she’d never noticed how tired I was. That was over three years ago, but I still missed those days. When she wasn’t around, I didn’t have to pretend so hard to be normal.

Slicing an apple with the biggest knife I could find, I fought the mixture of frustration and resentment that rose up every time I thought about him. I had enough problems without being forced to put up with the baggage he’d left behind.

I glanced up, and handled it the way I always did. “So, any appointments today?”

Mom grabbed her purple cell phone off the green countertop, and started scrolling through the calendar. “I have a couple of showings this afternoon, and a few more tonight. I might be a little late. Will you be all right alone?”

“Yeah, I’m probably going to do something with Finn.”

“That’s all? Only Finn?” She squinted and stared at my face. Once again, she didn’t believe me.

I picked up an apple slice and walked over to the window. This conversation needed to be over now. “Yep, just Finn.”

 She nodded and picked up her purse, but didn’t leave.

“Mom—go.” I turned and leveled my gaze at her, willing her to walk out the door. She reached up to ruffle my hair, but I ducked out of the way and she sighed.

“Do you need any money or anything? There are leftovers in the fridge.”

I shook my head. Mom turned and headed for the garage.

“Okay, well then have fun and don’t be out too late.” The house echoed as she shut the door behind her.

I don’t know why it surprised me that she still had hope. I’d tried to tell her about my curse once. She’d misunderstood and thought I was having nightmares. A half dozen different scans of my brain later, they handed me a bottle of sleeping pills, and a referral card to a shrink.

I hadn’t tried to explain any further.

Hope was as dangerous as my ability, both ripped through my life like a river carving a deep canyon in the heart of a mountain. They kept stealing away pieces of me that I was afraid I’d never get back.

I shoved my hair out of my face with my right hand, trying to force the dark thoughts away with it. Pain stabbed behind my eyes, like I’d bruised the spot where they connected to my brain. Dad used to get migraines, I wondered if they’d felt like this.

Sometimes I wondered if he might’ve been a watcher, but since he disappeared a month before I stopped dreaming on my own, I’d never know. He probably wasn’t, but I wish I’d gotten a chance to ask him.

I shuffled to my room and pulled on some sneakers. Gravity was my enemy. Each day my arms and legs, even my eyelids, felt heavier.

When I’d turned sixteen last month, I’d exhausted my final idea. I’d stopped by the gas station on the way home every night for two weeks. Making eye contact with the guy on the night shift in the hopes that I could sleep if my dreamer was awake all night, but it wasn’t real sleep. It was more like a calm awareness, like meditation or something.

It helped me focus a little better, but nothing like the real thing. When Mom started freaking about me being out too late all the time, I gave it up. The white nothingness got boring night after night anyway, like sitting in my own padded room. Kind of what I was trying so hard to avoid. Watching dreams was like staying up all night watching movies, and sleeping when my dreamer was awake was like staying up watching snow on a muted television set. Was it more peaceful? Yes. Was it a solution? No.

I’d tried pretty much everything I could come up with. I even tried not making eye contact with anyone all day—not as easy as it sounds. But even then I just saw the dreams of the last person from the day before. I couldn’t wake up unless something external forced me to. Which meant I was practically chained to my alarm clock…still, it could be worse. At least I didn’t get sucked in the moment my dreamer fell asleep or anything.

 About a year ago, I’d done some research on lack of R.E.M sleep. Even though the effects were terrifying, I couldn’t make myself stop doing it. Again and again I was dragged back to the website, like a boat to an anchor. Like maybe they’d changed the list since the last time I checked and my future wasn’t as grim as it’d been two days ago.

Pulling out my chair, I slumped down at my desk and turned on the computer. I opened Google and typed in the same thing I had so many times in the past: Effects of Sleep Deprivation. I clicked on the link for the first sleep clinic that popped up. They had the best list of symptoms and included the timeline in which they occurred.

What I’d experienced was almost identical to this list. The only difference was the timeframe. For the first year or so, I was just tired all the time, which a normal person experiences the second day. The third day came the tremors, third year for me. I scrolled down to the bottom of the list. No matter how many times I read it, it was still hard to keep breathing, to keep my heart beating as I read the last two symptoms.

Psychosis and death.