‘Insomnia?’ he asks.
‘More like dreams. Um, bad dreams.’
‘Has this happened before?’
I wrap a strand of my hair round my little finger. ‘It’s only a recent thing.’
‘Then it’s good,’ he tells me confidently. ‘It means your mind is trying to heal itself. Our daily lives often manifest themselves through dreams. It’s a way for your subconscious to work through problems.’
‘There were bears. In one of the dreams, I mean. I was trying to feed them.’ It’s only a small white lie.
‘Were you succeeding?’ He sounds eager.
‘Um, yeah, I guess.’
‘That proves you’re starting to win. You’re learning to handle your problem. This is a fantastic step forward, Zoe.’
I murmur non-committally. ‘One of them killed a puppy.’
‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘Do you like dogs?’
‘I do.’ I say it quietly. ‘There was another dream after that when I was lost in some kind of fog. I couldn’t get out no matter what I did. It was pretty frightening.’
‘Dreams often are.’ He lays on the reassurance. ‘But the best thing about them is that you’re safely wrapped up in your bed.’
‘The thing is that when I dream,’ I swallow hard, ‘it seems like I’m in control. That I’m aware of what’s going on.’
‘Ah, that’s interesting. Oneironautics.’
‘Oneira... what?’
‘Oneironautics,’ he repeats. ‘Or rather, lucid dreaming. It’s more common than you’d think.’
I’m flabbergasted. ‘It exists?’
‘Of course! You’re aware you’re dreaming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aware of your own identity?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aware you can make your own decisions within the dream?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are all classic signs. It’s all related to the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. There have been numerous studies on it.’
I sink down into the chair. I hadn’t expected to have my condition explained to me. ‘It’s not real,’ I whisper. Then I think of the physical evidence afterwards and doubt returns. ‘What if I dreamt it was raining and I woke up with wet hair?’ I ask.
There’s a short pause. ‘Well, that is fascinating. Sleepwalking combined with lucid dreaming.’
‘You think ... you think I just sleepwalked?’
‘Well,’ he laughs, ‘what else could it be?’
What else indeed? Suddenly I feel like an idiot for thinking otherwise. ‘How do I stop it?’
‘Hm, that’s a different proposition. Dreams cannot be stopped per se. I can send you a prescription for something that might dull your senses, however, and prevent the lucidity from recurring.’
‘Please.’ I stare at my drawing, my eyes drifting from one scrawled line to another.
I snatch it off the wall and screw it up.
Chapter Seven
Security is mostly a superstition.
Helen Keller
––––––––
Naturally, I take great pains this time not to touch the delivery person. The second I have the prescription in my sweaty palms, I slam the door shut and swallow the pills. I won’t deny I’m still nervous about what will happen when I sleep but I feel more at ease. Chemical mind control – you can’t beat it.
Except on those occasions when it doesn’t work.
I’m back in the damn Dreamlands forest. Surprisingly, however, I’m not upset or scared. If anything, I’m rather floaty. I reach out and scrape my fingertips across the cold bark of the trees on either side of me and hum. Then I sit down cross-legged. I hold up one hand in front of my face and wiggle my fingers. My vision blurs and I giggle.
There’s a soft whinny. A moment later, something damp nuzzles my neck.
‘Hello, my unicorn chum,’ I coo. I frown and deepen my voice. ‘I hereby christen you Pegasus. You may not have wings but I think I can fly enough for the pair of us.’
Pegasus huffs and nudges my arm. I ignore her and lie on my back, staring up at the leaves and branches. They stretch down towards me like spindly arms. Witch’s arms.
‘It’s not real,’ I say aloud. ‘None of this is real.’
Pegasus gives a high-pitched screech that could probably be heard for miles but I barely register it. I don’t even look up when her hooves clatter on the hard ground and she twists away, thundering into the trees behind.
‘What are you doing?’ It’s a male voice, and filled with derision.
I smile. ‘I’m dreaming of course. What are you doing?’
There’s a muttered curse and a hand grips my arm, pulling me to my feet. ‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘I was comfortable there!’
‘Until you freeze to death.’ I blink, trying to focus on the silver eyes. Dante. Why?
‘My duvet is warm and snuggly. I won’t freeze.’
‘Your skin is like ice. And you certainly can freeze.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I don’t like you,’ I tell him. ‘You’re shtupid.’
He glowers. Again. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘No, I’m not.’ I wobble slightly and almost fall.
He grips me tighter. ‘Yes, you are.’