R.E.M.

I’m not superstitious. I don’t usually believe in the supernatural – ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and the like. But the dream – oh god, it was so terrifying, and so real. The dreams that I usually have are fleeting, scattered, and I can hardly remember them the next morning, but there’s no way that I’ll ever be able to forget this one.

The strange thing about it was that the entire dream was so vivid… except for the man’s face. It filled me with a sense of dread to know that my brain had not managed to retain the visage of the man who killed me. Who would kill me. All I remember of his appearance is the distinct scar on his right hand, a long, red scar stretching across his palm. As I mentioned before, I’m not one to believe that dreams can come true, but I know that this wasn’t just a dream – it was a premonition. 

“Relax,” said my sister over the phone, “it’s just a dream, it’s doesn’t mean anything. Don’t be so silly!”

The same thing was said to me by my mother. And my father. And everyone else I sought counsel with. 

I think I became slightly insane. I was wracked with fear and paranoia, triple-locking each door and window, tossing and turning in my bed, unable to close my eyes to sleep. And when I did sleep, I saw the man – somehow I never caught sight of his face, but the scar on his hand was clear as day.

How much longer could I go on like this? Nights haunted by that ghastly scarred hand tightening around my neck, days haunted with the memory of the scene? I was positive that it wasn’t a mere dream, and there was no way that I could spend the rest of my life living in sheer terror, awaiting the day that I meet the man with that awful, awful hand. 

I was young, too young to die, and far too young to have a dark cloud of fear hanging over my head, fear of imminent death. 

I dreamt the dream again that night, although it was in some way even scarier than before. I woke drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, and I could almost still feel the man’s hand choking me to death. At this point, I could feel nothing but blind terror, so I made a midnight trip to my sister’s house, knowing that I would feel much safer in her cozy home.

She was worried for me, I could tell. She noticed the way my hands shook as I removed my coat.

“I think you should see a psychiatrist,” she said, “or a therapist. I can send you the numbers of a few that my friends go to. You should give it a try.”

And so I did. Somewhere inside, I knew it would make me feel better to talk to a professional about the horrific dreams I had been having.

I walked into my new psychologist’s office, which smelled clean, like fresh laundry and a faint scent of lemon.

He was an average-looking man, looking rather small seated behind a desk that was way too high, but the various certificates of commendation that he had framed and hung on his wall put me at ease.

“Good afternoon,” he said, flashing me a charming grin, “I am Dr. Becker.”

I smiled back at him, taking his hand in mine and shaking it. 

He withdrew his hand quite quickly. But not quickly enough for me to miss the long, red scar stretching across his right palm.