Recurring nightmare 4

It always starts where it shouldn’t: somewhere familiar. A workplace... though not one I know, but a stitched-together Frankenstein of every job I’ve ever had. It feels normal, right down to the carpet stains and flickering lights. Comfortably dull.

■■■■■ is there with me. In the dream, this isn’t strange. Nothing is. At first.

Then the figure arrives.

Their face is soft around the edges, smeared by memory. I almost recognize them... like a trusted coworker whose name you’ve forgotten, or someone you once loved before they changed. They smile (I think). They move toward ■■■■■ with casual authority. A nurse, maybe? A teacher? An administrator with some cryptic reason to lead him away? They say nothing alarming. Nothing at all, really. But everything in my gut is screaming.

Something is wrong.

A ripple of dread rolls through me as they reach for him. My instincts catch fire. I move to intercept, trying to pull ■■■■■ back. For a split second, I feel his hand in mine; warm, familiar, real.

Then… nothing.

His hand slips through my fingers like wet sand. I try again. And again. But his body no longer holds shape. I can’t grip him. Can’t anchor him. My hands pass through, useless and frantic, as if trying to hold a memory underwater.

His eyes meet mine.

He’s afraid now. He’s calling for me, but it’s garbled, smothered by a rising tide of static in my ears. I see his mouth moving. I hear nothing. The others around us; coworkers, strangers, ghosts, do nothing. Their faces are all blurred. They don’t seem to notice. Or care.

I scream for help.

Or I try to. The sound dies in my throat. No one hears. No one sees. Only the figure, the thing, acknowledges my distress. It offers a look of vague reassurance. A mimicry of kindness.

But I know.

I know something isn’t right. That this isn’t someone safe. That ■■■■■ is being taken.

And I can’t stop it.

They vanish into the fog of whatever-this-is, leaving me behind with empty hands and a heart full of static. The warmth of his touch lingers; a phantom burn of my own helplessness. The illusion of normalcy shatters, and I’m left alone in the debris.

I usually wake up screaming.

■■■ is the one who pulls me back.

And for the next few days, I don’t take my eyes off ■■■■■.

Not even for a second.