I woke from the dream with lingering sadness. I laid on my side, silent and feeling tears roll down my cheeks. Trickling over the tip of my nose.
I kept my sobs inside, my 5 year old had snuck into my bed and I didn’t want to scare him.
As my mind woke, I recognized that it was just a dream. Just a sad, scary dream. In the waking world, my sister was alive and well. Likely sleeping in her bed still since it was only 6 am. I went through the zombie-like motions of making coffee and splashing in a bit of milk to bring it to the perfect caramel color.
The dream lingered in my mind. I walked myself through what I knew was false. I had not just attended my sister’s funeral. My husband had not broken down and confessed to me that he was in love with her. He had not told me that she was pregnant with his child when the car had hit her. I had not watched his devastation on the night of my sister’s funeral as that selfish bastard ruined the rest of my life.
The man in question walked into the kitchen where I was sitting and ran his hand down my arm.
He did not knock up your sister.
Revulsion coursed through me anyway.
“Good morning love, how did you sleep?”
“Had a bad dream. And Josh stole the blankets when he climbed into bed with us,” I replied softly.
“He stole them from me too!” my husband laughed gently. “He must have been cold. What was your dream about?”
“I can’t quite remember. Just kind of left me feeling sad.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully it passes. Want pancakes this morning?”
He sounded so sincere.
Because he did not actually cheat on you with your baby sister.
I sipped the coffee, willing the thoughts to clear. Dreams didn’t usually stick with me. This one would pass soon too. It was just so vivid. I could still feel the anger and heartbreak, like a knife stabbing right through my heart.
I needed to try really hard not to take this stupid dream out on him this morning.
“We have eggs if you’d rather have that?”
“Sorry, spaced for a minute. Pancakes sound great. Strawberries would be really good with that too, I’ll cut some up.”
He kissed my cheek and I did my best not to shrug him off.
He gave me a look so it must not have been successful.
“Sorry, I’m still grumpy this morning. I need more coffee.”
I offered him a small smile and he grinned back at me.
“It’s that blanket thief!”
“I know! We need more blankets!”
The feelings continued to plague me throughout the day. By the time I was ready to sleep, the ick factor of laying in bed next to my husband was making me nauseous. I knew if he tried to snuggle up to me I wouldn’t be able to hold in the rage I was feeling. I’d have to tell him about this ridiculous dream I had if I started yelling at him about it. I really really did not want to do that.
Are you sure you can trust him? What if he makes fun of you for it?
I looked around. It was like someone was whispering in my ear but no one was there.
He’s a sweet man and he probably won’t make fun of you. He’s going to comfort you and you know it.
What if he starts to notice how attractive your sister is when you tell him?
The voice was soft and kind sounding. But wholly unfamiliar. It sent a chill down my spine.
He’s known her since she was a child. He’s never looked at her in any way that made me remotely uncomfortable. And she wouldn’t do that to you either.
What if you tell him and he mentions it to somebody?
That would be super embarrassing. But he wouldn’t do that and even if he did, no one can control their dreams.
I knew that I was overreacting. I knew that if I shared my dream with him he would be the same sweet, empathetic husband that he had always been. We were a team, we’d always taken an ‘us against the world’ approach to our marriage. But I couldn’t tell him this. I was embarrassed and I was angry. Partly at myself, partly at my husband, a bit at my sister too. Less at my sister because she had died. In my dream. Not in the real world. I had to keep reminding myself of that. Maybe I would call her when I woke up. Except if I called her I might yell at her and that wouldn’t be great so maybe I wouldn’t call her.
I felt nauseous again.
“You coming to bed love? Want to watch some TV?”
“I’m not feeling well, I think I’m just going to sleep on the couch tonight.”
My husband walked around the corner, the picture perfect look of concern on his face.
“Are you sure you want to sleep on the couch?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to get you sick.”
“Ok, well can I get you anything? We have crackers and tea. Or I could run to the store and get you some ginger ale?”
“No, I’m just going to go to sleep. Thanks though.”
He grabbed my pillow from our bed and the softest blanket and started making up my bed on the couch. I lay down and he tucked me in with a kiss on my forehead.
“I hope you feel better in the morning. Are you sure you don’t want the bed? I can take the couch if you’re worried about it.”
“No, I’m good here.”
I didn’t think I could stand to sleep in our marriage bed tonight. Hopefully a good night’s sleep would help. I’d have a new dream and that would fix everything. I’d feel better.
I had the same dream.
In the morning, I remembered more of it. I felt cold and clammy. I slept on the couch again.
I had that same dream for a month. Every single night. Some nights I would wake up in the middle and when I went back to sleep the dream would continue.
You wouldn’t be dreaming it if there was nothing to it.
The same voice whispered in my ear every day. Never when someone else was around. I had never responded to it out loud, but the thoughts in my head seemed to do the trick anyway. Maybe it was part of whatever was wrong with me.
I slept on the couch every night too. I tried to interact with my husband as normal but he had clearly noticed me pulling back. He begged me to talk to him but how could I tell him about this stupid dream? How would he understand at this point? I still hadn’t called my sister, but she had called me five times so far. Her voicemails were getting more worried. Yesterday she texted me asking me to call her and begged me to tell her if she had done something.
How could I say ‘Yeah you fucked my husband in my dream and then died and didn’t have the courtesy to tell me first you whore?’. Because she hadn’t really. Had she? Was my subconscious trying to tell me something?
“Please just talk to me!”
That’s right. We were in the middle of a conversation and I had spaced out again.
“Nothing’s wrong Mike.”
“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. You haven’t slept in our bed in a month. You’ve lost I don’t even know how much weight, and I’m not even surprised because you don’t eat! You walk around like a fucking ghost. Josh has noticed even though you still talk to him at least. You look sick. Your skin is basically gray and you’ve got giant bags under your eyes. If you won’t talk to me will you talk to a doctor? Please love. Please a doctor or me or a therapist maybe?”
Maybe he was right. A therapist might be the right way to go, someone else who I could tell this stupid dream to who wasn’t in it fucking my sister. And they might be interested to hear I was hearing voices. A voice.
“Your sister called me, she said you haven’t been talking to her either.”
“Oh you’re talking to my sister now? Since when do you two talk?”
I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He looked confused.
“We talk every once in a while. She became part of my family too when we got married. And she’s worried about you so she called me. Honestly, I’d have called her soon if she hadn’t called first because I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine Mike.”
“Then go to the doctor. Go to the doctor and have them say you’re fine. Because, and I say this with all the love in the world, you look like shit. You are still the most beautiful woman in the world Pam but you look dangerously sick. If I saw you as a stranger on the street I would think you should be in the hospital.”
Maybe he should just go fuck my sister then.
I shook my head. The dream really was getting to me. He was right. A doctor or therapist would be a good idea. There was something wrong with me. Normal people didn’t have the same dream every night for a month. I needed help.
If I went to a therapist, would they ask me to tell my husband about my dream? Would he find out that I had been refusing to tell him about this stupid thing? How deeply I had let this eat into me when I could have just talked to him about it?
The thought filled me with dread. And disgust at myself.
“Ok. I’ll make an appointment with a therapist.”
Mike seemed to collapse in on himself in relief. He grabbed me in a tight hug and I felt rage. I stomped it down.
“Thank god”
I kept my word. I went to see the therapist. I told her about my dream. She did suggest that I tell my husband about it since it was impacting our life together. But, when I refused, she still helped me work through how to treat him like I used to. Fake it till you make it I guess.
I didn’t tell her about the voice I was hearing. I know I should have, but if it was stress induced from the dream then fixing the issues with the dream would clear that up too. And it may have been silly, but I felt like the voice would be angry at me. Even if it was all in my head. It had never spoken in front of anyone, and it felt as if it wanted to keep it that way. Private, between us. Between me and myself? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I tried so hard. So hard. But I kept having that same dream. Some days were better than others. Some days it was almost exactly like before I had the dream that first night. Others were worse. Sometimes I could barely look at him. But I always made sure to put on my best game face when our son was watching.
And then it happened. We were having Thanksgiving at our home, my parents and my sister were coming as were my husband’s parents and his two brothers. I had barely spoken with my sister since the dream started. I could tell it hurt her but I couldn’t bear the thought of her most times.
I had dreaded it for the whole month of November. I had tried to suggest to my husband that we take a vacation with our son instead, but he really likes the family Thanksgiving. It’s his favorite holiday and after everything I had been putting him through, I didn’t want to take Thanksgiving away too.
After dinner, my sister had an announcement. She was pregnant. I pasted the best fake smile I could on my face because this was not her fault. My husband gave her a hug.
It’s his. Let me help.
My mind went blank.
I’m not lying when I say I don’t know what happened next. There’s not even a flash of memory, you know?
The police didn’t believe me. They told me that I stabbed my husband 17 times before the others in the house had gotten me under control. Apparently, the amount of blood covering me made me quite slick and hard to get a good hold of. They told me my sister had grabbed my son and fled to the neighbor’s house. I guess they had called the police.
My first memory after him hugging my sister was of me sitting in the back of a cop car. Handcuffs stuffing biting into my wrists. Blood trickling down my nose. It was itchy so l tried to rub it in my shoulder but just ended up with more blood on my face.
The bastard had lived too. I guess that’s good though, since he hadn’t done anything really. His doppleganger had tortured me every night though.
I haven’t had the dream since. And the voice has left me alone. Related to the dream, just like I thought.
When I was on the stand, they kept asking me why I did it. How am I supposed to tell them it was over a dream though? So I told them I didn’t know.
I sleep much better in prison.
But I’m out now. Not officially legally or anything. But out. My mom came to see me the other day to let me know my sister and my husband (ex-husband I guess) were getting married soon. Apparently, she’s just been a rock for him, comforting him so much.
The voice came back, like it was never gone.
I’ve unlocked the doors. The guards are asleep. You’ll just have to walk out.
I’m going to steal a car and run her over. Make the rest of that dream come true too.