“And so, class, Alexander Eisenberg found a way to control the dream that sleep produces for you! And he created today’s simulators and controllers to help us do the same!”
The new teacher looks around her young class, expecting attentive faces and intrigued expressions. She only gets blank stares and I’m-ready-for-naptime looks. However, I had snuck into the classroom with a curious question for her, and now seems to be the right time to ask.
“Is it safe?”
“Uh-um… what?” The teacher, astounded at my appearance, stutters dumbly and I worry that I may have ruined her first teaching experience for her. She gathers her wits and clears her throat to answer. “Oh, of course!”
However, that’s all she says, and I narrow my eyes at the lack of information. Yet I know somehow that it’s the most information I’ll get from her, so I leave. I return to my snowy meadow and wonder.
I wonder why I went there, what prompted me to ask the teacher such a question? The older scholars are supposed to keep away from the lower-grade children. Yet something propelled me to ask. Was it curiosity? Perhaps, for I had heard everything about dreams before yet no one ever asked a question as terrifying as that one seemed to be. People dismissed doctor’s advice about balance. They spent every moment possible in sick fantasies where they could pretend to be a king, a celebrity, a billionaire. No one dreamed of poverty, disease, or hunger. Why would they? They could live in a utopian society whose only limit is their own imagination. Why would they ever need to be reminded of the tragedies of everyday life?
They could be anything, make anything. They could bring back the dead, their lost loved ones. They could make themselves fall in love with some handsome stranger who only says what lines are fed to them and only does what it is thought they should do.
My meadow isn’t abandoned as it should be today. There are footprints in the freshly fallen snow that lead in winding pathways through the trees, past the point that any inspector would’ve traveled. Besides, inspectors aren’t due to check our dreams for another few weeks. Whoever it is, I don’t remember giving permission for them to enter my personal landscape.
Searching the trees, I spy a figure standing in the golden outline of the always-rising sun. I stomp towards them, but the snow weighing down my boots forces me to march at a less threatening pace than I wish to travel at.
As I near, I can tell that the figure is a boy with dark, golden skin and midnight hair. My pace slows to a crawl as I watch him watching the sun, transfixed and awed by the sight of him in my dream.
“Why?” he murmurs, sighing softly. I reach out to him, my fingers stretching, my heart racing, my feet- crack! He turns swiftly, and he is nothing short of shocked when he sees me standing with my hand stretched out towards him. I let my arm fall to my side awkwardly and am speechless as I gaze into his eyes.
Moments of silence pass till he raises his hand to brush my cheek. I shudder at the touch, and he draws away from me.
“I must be dreaming,” he whispers softly. I chuckle slightly, amused by the common pick-up line.
“I’m asleep- I know!” He pinches himself harshly, narrowing his eyes when he sees me still standing there. “Who are you? Why are you in my dream?”
“What?” I ask, surprised. That’s more than the normal pick-up line, and I’m not sure if I like his tone…. “You’re the one appearing in my dream. And besides-”
“This is just a dream.”
“-how did you even-”
“I need to wake up.”
“-get in here, because I-”
“Wake up!”
“- thought I locked this dream from visitors?”
Beautiful raven eyes stare at me from under locks of black hair. “I’m sleeping,” he murmurs.
My eyes narrow, and I turn away from him in disgust. His insult to me is a common, but effective, way of telling someone off.
How dare he! I hate him!
My first thought consists purely of contempt towards this stranger, but my curiosity counters me.
How did he get in here?
I turn back to settle my curiosity, and am met with a burning ambivalence in the stranger’s raven eyes. His expression catches me off guard and I ogle at him, speechless.
“Why are you here?” I ask when I found my voice.
His expression evolves into that of confusion. “What do you mean? I’m in a dream. This isn’t anywhere, truly, it’s not real.”
“Aren’t you connected to a simulator?”
“What,” he scoffs, “like an illusion thing? Yeah, right. People are weak for using those.”
He stares at me for a long pause before something clicks.
“Wait- you’re with them?” he gasps and takes two steps back, seemingly afraid of…of what?
Puzzled, I glance around the meadow. I only see a blinding white field with dark patches of snow covered trees scattered across. So, if there are no strange hackers- which is what I was expecting from his reaction- then the only things that he would have to fear in this meadow is the snow, the trees, the harsh breeze…or me.
My hazel eyes meet his black orbs with hesitance. I don’t want him to be afraid of me, but the look in his eyes tells me that he already is.
“What is it?” I growl at him, and he jerks back, surprised by my malicious tone, loses his balance, and falls into the snow.
“It’s cold!” He jumps back up, his face filled with wonder and skepticism as he stares at the red marks on his hands.
“Yes, it is,” I say, my voice cold and sharp. He glances up at me, his hands suspended in mid-reach towards the snow on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve made you mad now.”
“No, it’s just- I just-” I sputter, searching for the right words. “I just can’t keep up with your mood swings!”
“What?”
“You were afraid of me before, and now you’re… not.” I cross my arms, fiddling with the string on the elbow of my left sleeve as I stare at him, speculating.
I clear my throat and remember something. “What did you mean?”
“About what?”
“About ‘you’re one of them’.”
“Oh,” he says his expression first surprised, then suspicious, “um…it’s nothing.”
I just stare at him, waiting for a true answer as he squirms and tries to avoid my eyes.
“Bria,” I sigh when I realize that he’s not going to answer, “My names Bria.”
He stares at me.
“And yours is?” I prompt.
“Oh, uh, Michael.”
“Really? You don’t sound too sure about it.” I joke, trying to calm his obvious unease.
He gulps. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I chuckle lightly and sit down across from him.
“Isn’t that cold?” Michael asks, staring at me in wonder again.
“The snow?” I ask. Michael nods and I chuckle lightly. “Not for me. I’ve been here so often that I’ve gotten used to it.” I dig my hand into the soft flakes. “It’s like anything else- it stings and bites at first, but once it realizes that you are going to leave it alone, it is forgiving and beautiful.”