"Dare to dream" by Amber Silver

Abigail’s lips curved in a smile, “Is that so?” She queried playfully. He chuckled and tucked a loose strand of mousey hair behind her ear.

“Yes. It is so.”

Abigail’s eyes closed and she leaned into his touch. “Is this wrong?” She whispered, fearing his response.

A pause. “What does your heart tell you?”

“That nothing has ever felt so right.”

He smiled and pulled her close to him, laying soft kisses on her cheeks. “It is almost time, Abigail.”

She flinched as though he had struck her. She wanted to argue with him and demand that she stay, but she knew it was useless. “When will I see you again?”

“As soon as possible. I have much work to do.”

“I -“

Beep! Beep! Beep!

“- love you.” Abigail whispered softly as she opened her eyes. Warm sunshine poured through her window and washed her bedroom in cheery light. She rolled over and glared at the offending alarm clock. 7:15 AM. Time to get ready for work.

Despite the beautiful spring weather, Abigail’s mood was foul and her co-workers knew it. As days stretched into weeks, her temper deteriorated a little more every day. It was difficult to concentrate on menial tasks when her mind wandered at every opportunity.

“Thank-you for contacting H&T Office Supplies. My name is Abigail, how may I assist you?”

“I miss you.” A soft voice whispered through the receiver.

Abigail choked on her coffee. “I beg your pardon?” She spluttered.

“I said, ‘I’m not impressed!’” A high-pitched woman’s voice chortled in her headset. Abigail’s heart sank as the woman continued, “Do I need to ask for your supervisor? We ordered four cases of copier toner and twenty boxes – let me repeat that for you – twenty boxes came leaking! This was our first order through H&T and we are sincerely disappointed. If this is the way that your company conducts business-“

“Absolutely not, ma’am.” Shot Abigail’s programmed reply, “May I please have your company telephone number so I can bring up your account? We would be happy to either re-send the twenty damaged items or refund them you your company credit card immediately.”

Abigail brought up the woman’s account and detached herself from the situation. Every call was the same meaningless drivel from haughty, holier-than-thou business men and women. Each caller was convinced that any shipping mistake or packaging problem was malicious intent by H&T to destroy their business or ruin their otherwise flawless day.

After Abigail was finished with the call she logged the account and punched in her phone code for lunch. She sighed, tossed her headset onto her desk, and stretched the knots out of her back.

“Am I going crazy?” She murmured as she ran her hands over her face. She first met him in her dreams two years ago. In the beginning he was just a faceless player in a frivolous dream like any other, but he appeared again the next night. Then, he came back to her the night after that, and the night after that. The dreams with him were as real as the office in which she sat, and their courtship progressed like any other. But somehow her time with him felt more genuine than anything she had ever experienced while awake.

If she did not dream of him then her night was devoid of any sort of dream at all. She would close her eyes and wake up when her alarm clock rang, refreshed but not satiated. He had never introduced himself to her, and oddly, it did not matter. However, on his last visit he did tell her something that she had obsessed about ever since.

“I am a god.” He had murmured as he cupped her cheek with his palm.

“Is that so?” She had asked, amused.

But what if it were true? Since that night she had spent hours researching about gods and mythology. She had been relatively successful in her endeavor though the results were not favorable. Abigail shook herself from her reverie. Had he contacted her this afternoon? Or was she truly losing her mind?

That evening, Abigail set her alarm clock for 7:15 AM. As always, her heart beat a little faster when she snapped off her bedside lamp and pulled the covers close to her chin. Would she see him tonight? Or did eight hours of oblivion face her? She closed her eyes and waited.

“I have missed you, little bird.” He murmured. Abigail opened her eyes to a familiar scene. She was on a black divan in a dark room; her view of the room was cut off by dark curtains which surrounded the divan on all sides. He sat on a great cushion close to her, his face illuminated by dancing candlelight.

“I’ve missed you, too.” She smiled as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Where’ve you been?”

“Working.” He said vaguely.

“I see.”

He cocked his head. “You look troubled.”

She rolled on her side to face him, “Morpheus.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “So they call me.”

“You’re wed.” She said. There. It was out in the open.

A shadow passed over his face, and Abigail could see that he was considering his words carefully. “It is true that I was wed to a Grace, and that our union resulted in offspring. But it is also true that that was a union of duty. This is a union of the heart.”

“Then let me stay with you. Is there no way?”

“We can only be as one when you dream. I am sorry, little bird.” His apology was sincere, but that was of little comfort to her. Sorrow crinkled his expression, “It is almost time.”

Abigail felt a hot stab of panic cut her chest, “I love you.” She blurted as she reached for him. He smiled.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Abigail opened her eyes and was greeted by another bright morning. She sat up abruptly and swore, consumed with rage at the unwelcome interruption. She settled her eyes on the source of her anger and she was briefly satisfied when she threw the alarm clock across the room. No, she couldn’t do this anymore.

She kicked off the covers and got out of bed. She paced fervently back and forth in her bedroom. Two possibilities stretched in front of her: either she was crazy and she would spend the rest of her lonely life on medication, or worse, locked in an asylum, or she would be teased with brief visits from a dream man only to awake every morning alone.

A third possibility suddenly blossomed in her mind and she stopped in her tracks as she considered it. A sudden certainty consumed her, and she went to her desk to retrieve a pad of paper and a pencil. She took her time and crafted her letter carefully; this was not just any runaway’s note: it was hers. As she explained herself to whomever would listen, she nibbled on her third possibility and found herself more and more pleased with it.

When she was finished she sealed the letter in an envelope and left it on her desk. Then, she went to her window and smiled back at the happy morning.

Two hours later her landlord unlocked her front door for the police, who had been summoned by an unknown caller to this apartment. They found Abigail unconscious in her bed with an empty bottle of sleeping pills on her nightstand. The ghost of a smile graced her face, as though she were in the middle of a pleasant dream. The landlord found her letter on her desk and handed it to one of the police officers as his partner summoned an ambulance.

The letter read:

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Abigail and I did not try to kill myself. If I am dead than it is no one’s loss but my own. If I am in a coma, I ask that you please liquidate my assets to fund my life support for as long as possible.

I leave behind no relatives so do not bother to try and contact my next of kin.

Sincerely,
A.

Post Script: . “Happy are those who dream dreams and are ready to pay the price to make them come true.”