Isaac had always been told that the most important thing that a kid could do was dream. If this was true, then he was the most productive boy in all of Clear View Elementary School. Grown-ups said that dreams were fuel for the future, whatever that meant. They said that dreams were where truth began. None of that really mattered to Isaac, though. To him, the most important thing about dreams was that they were fun. Every dream was a new adventure. Sometimes he was a daring space explorer, traveling the galaxy and making all kinds of cool explosions. Other times he was a brave knight in shining armor, battling orcs and dragons to save the world.
Of course, not all dreams were fun. Some of them were scary. There was that one where he showed up to school in his underwear, and everyone laughed at him. Or there was that one with Freddy Krueger and Jason. He’d had that one after he and Josh O’Leary had snuck into the movies. The worst dream, though, was the one he couldn’t quite place. It was the kind of dream that made him feel safe and afraid at the same time. But that wasn’t what bothered him. What scared him was that it was always so real.
The dream began with him in his room, asleep. The fact that he was asleep in his dream bugged him, but he wasn’t sure why. He knew that he was in his room, because he was in his bed and he could make out his toys and baseball cards in the corner. Then a spear of light shot out across the floor. As the column of light grew wider he realized that his door was opening. Light from the hallway poured into the room, and he tried to hide underneath his sheets. Through the covers he could make out the shape of a man—a shadowy man whose face was hidden. The sight of the figure was comforting, yet something inside him grew cold, and he shivered beneath his many blankets. The dark man drew closer, and the only thing he could do was close his eyes and pray that it would go away. A cold yet soothing hand brushed against his small shoulders. It was a gentle touch. A bad touch.
Isaac shot upright with a shriek. His heart was beating a mile a minute, the sound echoing in his ears. Isaac’s short brown hair was matted with cold sweat. His eyes darted across his room, searching for the dark figure but finding only emptiness. His room was filled with light, but it was coming from the window, not the doorway. Isaac’s Hulk Hogan alarm clock, perched on a table near his bed blinked seven fifteen. The room was silent; save for the sound of Isaac’s own rapid breathing. Through the insufferable silence came a voice, one only his mind could hear. To his surprise, he wasn’t afraid. Slightly confused, perhaps, but not afraid. He realized that he should be concerned. Hearing voices was odd, even in the Harry Potter books. But the voice Harry had heard was dark and evil. The one Isaac heard was gentle, comforting, and hauntingly familiar.
Beware, it said. He’s watching you. Isaac’s eyes whirled to his door. A man was there. A dark man covered in shadows. He cried out again and dove under the covers, his only refuge. A voice called after him from the doorway.
“Sorry, Sport. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Isaac peeked out from under his blue linen sheets. Framed in the doorway was his father, a smile plastered across his face. Under the sheets, Isaac smiled a little as well. ‘It’s only Dad’, he thought. ‘Nothing to worry about. ‘
Nothing at all? Isaac drew his blankets tightly around himself.
A moment passed. Isaac made no move, and his father stood his ground. “Oh, come on,” his father said with a laugh. “I’m not that scary looking, am I?”
Isaac laughed, a high, bubbling sound. Of course Dad wasn’t scary. He leapt from the small bed, forsaking his cloth sanctuary. His father stumbled slightly as Isaac threw himself into a full-force hug.
“Morning Dad,” he said brightly. He looked up high into his father’s eyes; he barely reached to the tall man’s navel. His father laughed and placed his hand on the boy’s head.
“Hurry up and get dressed,” his father told him. “You need to get some breakfast, then I’ve got to get you to school.”
‘Oh no,’ Isaac thought. ‘I have a math test!’ He rushed to his dresser, pulling off his pajama shirt as he went. He opened a few drawers, and grabbed the essentials: shirt, socks, shorts, and clean undies. A shape in his dresser mirror caught his eye: a shadowed face in the doorway, staring at him with a look that Isaac didn’t like at all. The face smiled, dark and cruel. For an instant, all the blood in Isaac’s small body went cold. He spun around quickly, but the doorway was empty. ‘Just a dream,’ he assured himself, shivering slightly. ‘Just a very real dream. I should tell Dad about it,’ he thought. ‘Trust Dad; he knows best.’
Isaac started to pull down his pajama bottoms, and then stopped. He looked at the door, finding it open and empty. ‘So what,’ he thought. ‘Who’s going to see me? Dad?’ Isaac paused for a moment. Frowning, he closed the door and drove its lock home.
/~*~\
Isaac did not tell his father about his dream that morning. He ate his breakfast of Frosted Flakes with a side of chocolate milk, and went to school, just like any other day. Isaac liked school, mostly because of Ms. Braddock. Out of all the teachers he had had, she was by far his favorite. This was saying a lot, for Isaac had liked all of his teachers. His mother had once told him that teachers were heroes and angels. She had said that two years ago, right before the accident.
In a way, Isaac felt that he had to like his teachers, if only for Mom. Ms. Braddock was different, though. She earned his love and respect. She was a short, plump woman, with chocolate skin that would shine on sunny days. Her smile glinted and sparkled when the light was right, just like Mom’s had. When she laughed, her face flushed, and she stumbled ever so slightly. It was as if she liked laughing so much that she would forget to breathe. She was always willing to explain long division and other really difficult subjects. Still, she would tolerate no smart-alecks, and was not above sending kids over to Mr. Johansson’s sixth grade class for time out. The best—and sometimes most annoying—thing about her, though, was that she noticed everything. She could always tell when Josh O’Leary was lying, or when Taren Wong was sick. And she never missed it when someone yawned during class.
“Feeling sleepy Isaac?” she asked, hands on her hips.
“No,” he lied. He could barely keep his eyes open. His cheeks turned a bright shade of red. Lying was bad. How could Ms. Braddock trust him if he lied to her?
“I know that lunch is in a few minutes, but I’d appreciate it if you could pay attention for just a little while longer.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said. Ms. Braddock’s face softened a little, and she continued her lesson on Thomas Jefferson, and how he bought almost half of America for only a few cents per acre. She went on to describe how Lewis and Clark made it all the way to the Pacific Ocean, and that they wouldn’t have made it without Sacagawea. Isaac was captivated, but he still had trouble staying awake. He was always tired the day after having the dreams. It was as if he didn’t get any sleep at all those nights; and those nights were becoming more and more frequent. Thankfully, Ms. Braddock hadn’t said anything about this weariness. Until the lunch bell rang.
“Isaac,” she said, motioning him aside. “Are you feeling all right?”
“What do you mean?” Isaac asked, his voice wavering slightly.
“You’ve been nodding off in class lately,” she said plainly. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”
Tell her. It was the voice from that morning.
“Well,” he said quietly. “Not really. I’ve been having these… dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?” she asked.
Trust her, the voice said. Teachers are angels. Angels protect.
‘Protect from what?’ Isaac wondered.
Bad things, the voice replied. Bad people.
“Isaac?” Ms. Braddock asked. Her eyes were wide and soft, yet somehow scared. It was the same look that Isaac’s mother had had when she was worried about him.
“Bad dreams,” he said, his voice but a whisper. His weight shifted from one foot to the other.
“What kind of bad dreams?”
“The scary kind.” Isaac’s voice trembled slightly. “There was a man. He was in my room.” Isaac studied the frayed ends of his shoelaces.
“What did the man do?” she asked. Isaac did not answer. “Did you know the man?” she asked after a pause.
Yes, said the voice.
“No,” said the boy. “I… I don’t know,” he stammered.
“Have you had this dream before?”
“Yes,” he said after a long pause. Ms. Braddock sighed, and then looked at him in a way he couldn’t figure out. She made her way to her desk and sat down. Her chin came to rest between her thumb and forefinger, and she seemed to stare through her desk.
“Isaac,” she said after a few minutes. “If you have this dream again I want you to tell me, OK?” Isaac nodded slowly. Suddenly, her smile returned. “Go get some lunch,” she said. Isaac returned her smile and scampered out the door.
/~*~\
Isaac sat alone in the cafeteria, lost in thought. He’d had bad dreams before. Why did this dream bother him so much? Was it because it was so real?
Dreams are where truth begins, said the voice.
‘Where truth begins? What is that supposed to mean?’ he wondered. He took a sip from his small carton of chocolate milk. He liked chocolate milk. Dad always gave him some right before he went to bed. ‘The school stuff tastes different,’ he thought. Dad’s was better. Dad always added something special; Isaac had seen him do it once. When Isaac had asked him what it was, his father had laughed. Just a little drop of love, he had said.
That had been last year, a year after the accident.
When the dreams started, the voice whispered. Isaac froze. Dreams are where truth begins.
/~*~\
Isaac was quiet for the rest of the day. After class, Ms. Braddock reminded him to tell her if he had the dream again. Isaac merely nodded. Isaac was quiet when his father picked him up from school. He was quiet during dinner, and his father noticed.
“Rough day, Sport?” he asked, all smiles.
“No, I’m just a little tired,” Isaac answered quietly.
“Oh,” his father said. “Then let me get something to make you feel better. How does some chocolate milk sound?”
Isaac tensed slightly, but said nothing. A few minutes later his father returned, placing a clear glass onto the table. Isaac peered into the glass. Its contents swirled innocently. He glanced up at his father, who smiled back at him. There was something different about his smile, though. The edges drooped slightly, as if it was straining to hold its form. Isaac noticed that his father’s eyes darted from his own to something on the table. Isaac followed his father’s gaze. There was the glass, alone in front of him. Small droplets of moisture had begun to form upon its surface. Isaac stared into the glass for a long while. It seemed to him that the liquid within had changed somehow. It was darker, murkier, a vile mixture of doubt and fear.
“Thanks Dad,” Isaac said finally. “Can I drink it in my room?”
“Sure, go ahead Sport,” his father laughed. Isaac picked up the glass and made his way slowly down the hall. After a moment, he looked behind himself. He was alone. Isaac quietly ducked into the bathroom and dumped the liquid into the sink.
/~*~\
Isaac was content as he readied himself for bed. Pouring out the chocolate milk had felt important, like riding a bike without training wheels for the first time. He wasn’t sure why it felt so important, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had done it. As he laid his head down on his pillow, he let out a sigh of relief. He pulled his blankets close, somehow confident that there would be no bad dream that night.
A soft creaking sound jostled him from his slumber. He covered his eyes as a spear of light streaked across the floor. His eyes darted to his doorway. A man was there: a dark man, a familiar man. Isaac felt his breath catch in his throat. This couldn’t be happening.
The man made his way slowly towards the bed. Isaac remained still, his heart racing. A hand reached out to touch his shoulder, and the boy tensed. The man stepped back for an instant, as if shocked to find Isaac awake. Then, just as quickly, his hand was pressed hard on the boy’s mouth. The man leaned in close, and Isaac finally saw his face.
“You’re supposed to be asleep, Sport.” His father’s voice was cold. “You didn’t drink your milk, did you?” Isaac shook his head slowly. “You’re always supposed to drink your milk, Sport. Guess I’ll have to show you why.”
‘No,’ Isaac thought. ‘No, don’t.’
But there was nothing that he could do. He felt his pajama bottoms being ripped off violently.
‘No, please don’t do this,’ his mind whispered. His father moved, keeping one hand firmly over Isaac’s mouth.
And then there was only pain. Isaac’s screams were muffled, but they were no less real. His mind was spinning, and he could not see for the tears. Suddenly, the pain and the tears were gone. His room had vanished, replaced by a beach of white sand. He was splashing and laughing in the shallow surf, without a care in the world. A voice was calling out to him.
“Come on, Sport. Time to go home.”
“But I don’t wanna,” he whined. He turned back to the sea and prepared to meet the next wave.
“Daddy knows best, dear.”
Isaac turned. There was his mother, waiting next to his father. Everything about her seemed to shine in the sunlight, even her smile. Isaac couldn’t help but smile back. He ran to her, then stopped with a sudden, violent jolt. The nylon strap of a seatbelt was holding him in place. He was no longer at the beach. He was in the back seat of Mom’s van, which was slowly filling with smoke.
The smoke grew thicker, and Isaac coughed. It was getting hard to breathe. Suddenly, he felt strong hands on his shoulders. The hands lifted him out of the smoke and into a steady rain. In front of him was a large, polished wooden box. As the box began to lower itself slowly into the ground, the hands on his shoulders squeezed him gently.
“This isn’t easy for me either, Sport,” came his father’s voice. “But I want you to know that I love you, and no matter what, I’ll try to do what’s best for you. Understand?”
Isaac closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened his eyes, his father hovered over him, panting and sweating. He removed his hand, and Isaac let his sobs flow freely.
“Shh,” his father whispered. “It’s all right. But now you know. This would have all been a dream if you’d taken your milk. Are you going to drink your milk tomorrow?” Isaac could only nod through the sobs. “Good boy,” he said, gently brushing a lock of hair from Isaac’s face. “So much like your mother.”
And then Isaac was alone. He continued crying for a long time.
Now you know, said the voice. Now you can tell Ms. Braddock. Now you can get away.
‘No,’ Isaac thought. ‘Trust Daddy. Daddy knows best.’
― Fat Anarchy on Airtube (ex machina), Tuesday, 22 February 2005 17:00 (twenty years ago)
one year passes...