The Last Dream

Drip, drop, drip, drop fell the rain against the smooth, almost black glass. It seemed never ending today to the girl sitting beside the window. She had been sitting there for hours now and the men and women walking by on the street below would notice the small, pale, sad face at the window. Many wondered why the girl never smiled or moved; one particularly bright youth even wondered if she was simply a statue. But still she stayed, silently watching and waiting for something that probably could never arrive. She had started to have doubts; would it ever arrive? Would she ever leave her chair? Is it even possible now in this world of rain? The rain seemed eternal now and she could almost forget the day that the drizzle had started. Almost. It was frustrating, grabbing at the threads of memories that she could occasionally grasp, yet more often than not she watched them slip gently through her fingers like water through a sieve. She thought back as far as she could remember, knowing that many of the details would have been lost already.

She had been a perfect child, loving and sweet with a smile worthy of Kodak. As she grew, people remarked on her intelligence and amiability. They were strong in the belief that she could fulfill all of the onerous, but well intentioned hopes and dreams that they had placed on her delicate shoulders. Attempting to live up to the expectations of everyone whom she had met strained the girl. This resulted in the gradual but increasing happenstances of misplacing important items like her mother’s scarf, for which she had not yet been forgiven, forgetting to do the enormous loads of homework she was assigned every night and the inability to remain organized. She had really tried to be organized; bought an agenda and everything, but when it is your agenda that you misplace, it is hard to stay organized. She began to tire easily and required a day of rest after any type of strenuous activity to the frustration of her teachers and the secretaries who marked each absence with a sigh. Important events such as friends’ birthday parties came and went while the girl remained in bed, unable to move. Her social life suffered, leaving her increasingly isolated with only the animals on her bed sheets patiently listening without deserting her. Her friends often wondered why she was that way, especially after yet another weak excuse of why she couldn’t go to the party tonight, but she did not feel the need to share the details of her illness with them. She brushed off innocent questions, concocted one-line jokes that would draw the attention away from the original question and created events that she could not miss when cornered. Her friends became frustrated at her obvious and not so obvious attempts to deflect personal questions while providing vague excuses. As this went on, no matter the medicine or doctors, the effects of her ever increasing and delibating illness grew worse and worse until eventually she became completely unable to move and was required to stay in her small room for the rest of her days.

So here she sat, unmoving and in terrifying pain, day in and day out waiting to see if her single, final wish could become reality. She had given up on every one of her other dreams by now, all else was futile in the wake of this illness. No more would she dream of climbing the Alps, visiting Mongolian nomads, building wells and hope in Africa. No longer possible was the shopping in New York, the restaurants of Paris and the comfort of a five star hotel. Nothing. Nothing else was left for her to even dream of.

What was left of the sun disappeared, leaving the street dark except for the dim flickering hum of the streetlights. The last few people scurried by, anxious to return home in their lateness. The street became silent and void of any sign of life except for the sodden leaves which occasionally floated across the street on silent gusts of wind. She sighed, it had been yet another day of disappointment and she knew that it would be followed by a restless, painful sleep as had become the norm. If she could only sleep, maybe she could dream again, with colours bold and beautiful as the background to wondrous flights of imagination. She passed her hands over her eyes gently, yet even this caused a sudden onset of pain. She became motionless again, holding in the whimper that wanted to pass through her lips. She saw a sudden movement on the street from the corner of her eye; it was probably just more leaves or maybe even some garbage. But wait, what was that? Could it be? The shadowy man took another step and appeared under the streetlight in his full glory. His fedora and long dark trench coat with the collar pulled up looked very old fashioned and slightly sinister, but it was not his choice in clothing that interested her. Instead it was what was in his gloved hand that made her heart flutter. He carried a large bunch of pink balloons, faintly glowing in the combination of the bluish grey streetlight and the now hesitating rain. He stopped, standing in a perfect tableau while looking up at her window. This was it! Her dream realized! The corners of his mouth turned up as if he knew that her secret desire had just been fulfilled. She slumped back into her chair, overwhelmed that her dream had actually been realized. The reason behind this specific fantasy was long forgotten, but it was a beloved wish that the girl remembered every day. Why fate had let her remember this dream always and had let it happen exactly as she had pictured it would never be known. Finally happy, she closed her eyes and the room became silent. The man walked ever onwards.