Slumber by Jarryd Bartle (Lucent Dreaming Issue 10)

September 24, 1903

Dear Arthur,

I pen this letter with my haggard eyes fixed upon the haze of morning seeping into my study. Shadows retreat across the carpet, they and I fearful of the coming dawn.

This is my seventh night without sleep. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of wakeful terror.

It’s funny, in the least humorous sense, how desires twist as your eyelids become thick with doze.

Not long ago my preferences were ostentatious: fluffed pillows, luxurious sheets and the like. Now I crave rapid, sudden, blissful oblivion. Lights out.

Don’t mistake my words. I dread sleep, but my dread cannot fight the inevitable.
To explain, we need to turn back four long weeks.

I believe it was a Monday, though you must understand that my memory isn’t to be trusted. After a long day of numbers and complaints I took refuge in my bed to rest.

There was nothing unusual about that night at first. Except perhaps that I didn’t dream. This will not be my first night without them.

Nobody knows why we dream. Amongst the various hypotheses put forward, some say that they reflect our subconscious desires, a way for our minds to make sense of our disappointing reality.

Or perhaps our private theatre assists with memory, consolidating the sights and sounds of the day through creative freeform expression.

Whatever the nature of what was lost, the effects were clear the following morning.

Forgive me as my words may fail to capture my perceptions accurately.

When I looked out to the streetscape that morning, the light appeared ever so slightly different. It was as if the divine painter had looked at the Sun’s palette and mixed in a single drop of azure blue.

As well as this contamination of colour, there was an ever so slight alteration of the prism through which light travelled. Thicker than memory, treacle.

Strange indeed. But this instance alone did not cause much panic. I planned to see a doctor if the condition persisted, though for that first day I simply adjusted and enjoyed my new-found acuity.

It was on the second day that things began to slip.

When I awoke from my dreamless slumber, the contaminated sunlight remained. But more strikingly, a new deformation befell my bedroom door.

If memory serves, which again it does not, doors were of a stout disposition. Wooden squares with angular sharp edges. At least, I believe that was what a door was.

What I saw in my bedroom that morning, what I see in my study now, is that doors now have rounded corners and a softer façade.

It was not just the light that was changing at rest, but matter. To my horror the deformation continued.

After the third night, the smell of coffee was altered. Sweeter now and less acerbic.
After the fourth night, the energy of water twisted into an alien pattern, less kinetic and more crystallised as it splashed in my sink.

The fifth night transformed the sounds of cars from a deep roar to a screeched rumbling, like a strangled rat.

It was after this period that I began my first stint of voluntary insomnia.

I lasted three days on the first try before collapsing in my hallway. When I came to, the fur on my carpet danced as if each strand was a stringy marionette.

My next attempt lasted only two days as my crawling depression forced me to relent to my condemned state.

I awoke the following morning, feeling relief, failing to identify a single fresh aberration.

It wasn’t until just before noon that I glanced at myself in the mirror. My face, dear Arthur, the demon who ate my dreams had twisted my features beyond recognition.

More startling was that only I could notice the error. Neither my colleagues at the bank nor my regular cashier at the store noticed the slightest difference.

But let me be clear, Arthur: the man staring back at me each day is completely foreign, no matter his resemblance in feature and form.

It was at this point that I began to consider the transformation of shapes, sounds and smells were not a material alteration. What if the world remained unchanged, but it was my mind that was altered?

I know at this point you may ask, and I can hear your voice so clearly, why did I not seek help from a doctor?

It was considered I assure you. But if I am to lose myself, let it be in my home where I have spent countless hours drinking and reading and laughing, not in some water-damaged padded room.

As for friends, you are one of the few I have left. My colleagues would sooner commit me than bear my burden.

Even you, dear Arthur, are likely to call an emergency in response to this letter.
There is no need I must confess. A Smith and Western 0.357 Magnum sits in my third lowest drawer. It sits in their locked, but the key is within reach.

Enough ugliness. I’m sure you want to hear about the remaining eighteen nights.
I endured five days of wakefulness, after which I lost the familiar stomp of footsteps. Now my walk was a mere patter, like rain on a roof.

Two days of success then failure took away the smell of old books. No longer a nostalgic aroma, it is replaced with a stench of putrid chemical sealant.

Four days of suffering were followed by the surface of paper changing in dimensions. I’m writing this letter without much clarity of where my phrases will land. Paper has always been porous in nature of course, but not like this, as if microscopic mountains leap from the page.

This brings us up to the present, where after seven days without sleep I have reached certain conclusions.

I’m writing to you not for help, but to describe my predicament in the hope your glorious mind can deal with future cases. I highly doubt I am the only victim of this nightmare demon.

Nevertheless, my plan is simply to give in. I will allow myself to be within the arms of the dark beast for as long as possible. When I awake, I will take pills to place myself back into oblivion.

I don’t know how many times I will do this. If the world is fated to be filled with shrieking motorcars, saccharine coffee, and folded doors all under an aqua vomit sun then so be it!

Let it happen quickly and spare me the turmoil.

You may worry what man, or monster will result. Relax, dear Arthur, the key to my third lowest drawer will always be within reach.

I love you dearly my old friend. Live your life fully and be mindful cruel impermanence can strike at any time.

With kindness and love,
Liam

November 13, 1903

Dear Arthur,

My deepest apologies for my ridiculous letter! What a fright that must have given you!
I assure you all is well. The maladies of the previous month and a half are well and truly over.
What silliness in my words!
As if the sun has not always had a tinge of aqua, as if cars do not have a familiar engine shriek! Such embarrassing phrases.
My only explanation, if it will be accepted, is that a period of nerves provoked by my arduous work got the better of me.
After several pleasant nights of sleep all has been corrected.
Wishing a Merry and Joyful Christmas to your beautiful family.

With kindness,
Liam