Ruth E. Griffin

“Are there happy endings?” I hear myself ask.

“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. Sometimes, there are only dreams,” comes the reply.

And in the next moment, I am jarred out of my sleep. I don’t know where I am for a moment. But as my eyes acclimate to the dark, I begin to recognize what’s around me—the dresser, the wardrobe, the television, the luminescent clock that reads 4:04am. 

I sigh with relief at the familiar setting, but now the questions begin: what was I dreaming? Who was I talking to? What about happy endings? 

I can’t remember the details, but I am left with such a feeling of uncertainty, I don’t know what to think. Why can’t I remember anything else? What happened? 

I woke up too quickly, I tell myself. 

But there’s more to it than that. There’s something else, something foreboding, something unsettling. Why am I filled with apprehension? I want to let it go, but I don’t know what I’m holding onto. 

It was just a feeling, go back to sleep. 

But I don’t want to close my eyes, the sense of dread I woke up with still present, still gnawing at me. I want to forget what I’ve already forgotten. But I’m afraid if I do, I’ll go back to my dream. Then I’ll be forced to finish the conversation and discover the truth. 

I lay with my eyes open, staring at the clock that still reads 4:04am. The minutes pass, but the time does not.

I’m still in a dream.