The Hardest Part Is Letting Go of Your Dreams

He was burning. Large, violent flames surrounded him. They were everywhere: their orange tongues licked the roof, the walls, the bed and his skin. He wanted to move, to run, to flee for his life, but his body didn’t obey him.

He screamed, but no sound escaped his chapped lips. The fire blazed with a deafening sound. He couldn’t hear anything but the sparkling of the flames that were engulfing his room. He knew that he wasn’t alone in the room. He tried to look around, but invisible chains had locked him to the bed. His eyes moved quickly, desperately trying to locate the unknown presence.

Suddenly, two hands gripped his throat. The hands were cold and dead and stood in stark contrast to the burning flames. They strangled him. He couldn’t see who or what was holding him. Sharp nails dug into his cold sweat-covered skin. He was choking.

His eyes fluttered open. The flames vanished, the hands let go of its deadly grip. He could still feel the damage they had caused. His skin prickled underneath his pyjamas. He gasped for air, trying to calm down. It was the dream again. It was not the first time, but it had never felt this real. He never noticed falling asleep, and suddenly the flames were everywhere.

He stared into the darkness of the empty room. He had not yet dared to move. He was afraid that he would still be surrounded by flames. Maybe whatever it was that strangled him was still lurking in the shadows.

He reached for the bedside lamp. He pressed the button and yellowish light filled the room. The corners of the room were still left in darkness, but he avoided looking in that direction. He wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to stop his body from shaking. A silent tear ran down his cheek, blending in with the cold sweat. He didn’t even care to wipe it away.

He couldn’t go on like this. It was taking the toll of him. He spent almost every night awake, only getting a few hours of sleep, then spending the remaining hours shaking in his bed. The nights in the tour bus were bearable; at least he wasn’t alone. Even if his band mates didn’t know how tortured he was, it was still a comfort just to know that they were there. It was nights like this that never seemed to end. He had always enjoyed staying up late, treasuring the stillness of the darkest hours. Now he couldn’t wait for the dawn to arrive. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to finish the tour if he couldn’t get the nightmares to come to an end. He didn’t want to stop touring; he didn’t want to give up this life. He was living his dream.

How ironic.

A sudden movement in the corner of his eye made him jump. Something had probably fallen down from its place. Maybe a book had been balancing at the edge of a table and eventually lost its fight against gravity. Strangely enough, he never heard anything hit the floor. He was starting to panic. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, and the walls seemed to close in around him. He had to get out. He cast his blanket aside and hurried towards the door. He darted through it and slammed it shut with a loud thud.

He was standing in a corridor. It was semi-dark; the lights on the white painted walls only cast a ghostly light over the empty hallway. Something creaked behind him, making him jump again. He didn’t dare to look over his shoulder and find the source of the sound. He tried to control the panic as he hurried along the corridor, looking for the door behind which he knew he would be safe.

He stopped in front of the very last door before the corridor turned to the left. Room 623 according to the golden letters on the door. He raised his hand and tapped the wooden surface three times. Faint, barely audible knocks, and still they seemed to echo in the empty silence. Something moved on the other side of the closed door. He heard muffled footsteps approaching. Thank God his friend was awake.

The door swung open. In front of him stood a black haired man, slightly shorter than himself, with arms covered in tattoos and a friendly expression on his face.

“Gerard!” he said in surprise. The look on his face changed and his eyes were suddenly filled with concern. “What’s up, Gee?”

Gerard darted past him. He couldn’t stand being in the empty corridor one second longer. It was a relief to hear the door close behind him. He turned to face his friend. He must be looking awful: worn out pyjamas, messy black hair and eyes full of fear. The cold sweat had left visible marks on his grey t-shirt.

“Frank,” he managed to mumble, panic still rushing through his body. He was struggling to keep it under control.

“It’s the dream again, isn’t it?” Frank didn’t wait for him to reply. He put his arm around the shoulders of his shaking friend and led him to the bed. He let Gerard crawl under the bed sheets. Two frightened eyes and a mess of black hair was all there was to be seen. Frank lay down next to him, gently putting his arms around his band mate, pulling him closer.

“You wanna tell me about the dream?” Frank knew about Gerard’s recurring nightmares, only he thought it was nothing but regular anxiety dreams. Gerard had chosen not to tell how bad it had gotten, not wanting to be looked at as some kind of freak.

“Fire,” Gerard whispered. “There are flames everywhere. I lay in my bed and they surround me. They’re on my skin, burning me. I can feel them. I try to move but I can’t.” He paused for a moment, trying to control his uneven breathing. “Then I try to scream, but I feel these cold hands around my neck. They squeeze the air out of my lungs and I can’t breathe. I know I’m going to die – and then I wake up.”

“How long has it been this bad?” Frank asked. “I knew you had night tremors, but this…”

“Frank, it’s not night tremors anymore,” Gerard interrupted. “It’s night terrors.” He shuddered. “They are real. I never realize that I have fallen asleep, and the next thing I know, the flames are everywhere. I can even feel the smell.” He frowned. “It’s waking dreams, Frankie.”

“Do you get any sleep at all?”

“Not much. Couple of hours, if I’m lucky.” There was resignation in his voice.

“Oh, Gerard…” Frank whispered. He held the broken man as close to him as he could in an attempt to give him comfort. Gerard held on to his friend as if his life depended on it, or maybe it was his sanity.

Silence fell over the room. No sound was to be heard except for the breathing of the two men. The sheets rustled as Frank changed the position of his arm and buried his fingers in Gerard’s hair. Gerard’s body was still shivering slightly, but he no longer felt as if he was going to panic. For the first time he dared to close his eyes. No flames danced before his eyes. No dead hands clutched his throat. All he could feel was Frank’s hands slowly caressing his neck and the warmth of his friend’s body next to him. He was finally able to relax. He had found solace in Frank’s embrace. With a tired sigh of relief, he drifted off to a long, untroubled sleep.