The Children Bad Dreams

Dalke awoke with a start, his bed wet with sweat cold like the ocean on a winter twilight. He had a dream, the kind of dream when you want to go to your mother and eleoqently say, "I had a bad dream," to which Dalke's mother would respond, "a nightmare?" bringing up that feared word that spears dread into the heart of all children; and after all, aren't we all children.

This story is not one of Dalke; this is the story of his bad dream, his nightmare. Nightmares, if you did not know, are things of pure evil, guilt, obsession, fear, and misery. A nightmare serves no purpose but to frighten, akin to a horror movie. But there is no horror movie on the face of this Earth which could match the force of a Nightmare. (I use the capital letter for a reason; you shall see what it is soon enough.) A bad dream can scare one; a Nightmare unleashes the full force of one's subconscious fear against him. Dalke's dream this night was no different.

He was in a snowy peak, far, far, above the ground. I say in, reader, because he was in a cave, a deep, dark cave that you would shine the flashlight into and back away, deciding now would be a perfectly good time for lunch and certianly not a good time for spelunking. Dalke was not spelunking in his dream; he was an infant, rather than the sixteen year old person he was out of the dream. Person, yes, person, because in his eyes he is a boy, and in the Human Race's eyes he is a man, but those that know him know he is neither, is something rarer still: undefined. So infant Dalke walked into this deep, dark, you'd-have-turned-back-if-you-were-smart cave for the most innocent of reasons: to look for his Teddy bear. His teddy bear's name was Roosevelt; this is irrelvant save for the fact it tells you that Dalke is not an idiot. Roosevelt was sitting against a rock a little ways into the cave, and Dalke had gone and picked him up when he heard the horn.

The horn was not a horn that one plays; it is not the horn on a car, or one which would be blown in battle in days of old. The horn was worse than all that: it is the horn that is attached to a truck that is about to hit an infant holding a small bear named after a president. Dalke whirled, screamed, and was his sixteen year old self in time to see the Nightmare. The thing was indescribable. If you, reader, were to fall asleep now and have the worst dream of your existence, you would see this thing. It was hideous, sickening, gruesome, and deathly. Dalke screamed, cried, tried to run, and clutched Roosevelt. It was coming right at him.

Dalke awoke with a start, his bed wet with sweat cold like the ocean you dream about in the summer. The thing's image was still pressed in his mind, a ghostly horn sounding throughout his thoughts. He got up immediately, tired but very afraid. He walked slowly downstairs and fixed himself some water. He pretended to smoke a cigarette, pretended he was not still living with his mother. He drank all the water, then went into the bathroom. When he had relived himself, he looked into the mirror and saw a child standing behind him, dressed in rags.

Try to put yourself, dear reader, into his position. Scream if you have to as you image being a sixteen year old person with a raggedy child standing behind you in your bathroom at midnight. Go ahead, close your eyes. That is, unless you're driving. But then, if you're driving, put this down. It's not as good as the road, trust me. Try not to crash, now. Dalke almost did scream, a scream he would be made fun of for had his friends heard it, but surpressed it. "Who-" he began, and the boy answered.
"I am one of the Children of Bad Dreams," he said, as if that meant anything. "And I am here to tell you that you must sleep again, tonight."
"But-" asked Dalke, "What is your name?" The boy looked around the bathroom. He glanced at the mirror.
"Mirror," he said. "Yes, that is my calling." Dalke, like most, thought being named 'Mirror' was a tad odd. But then, so  is having a rag-clad child named Mirror in your bathroom at night after a scary dream.
"Go back to sleep," said Mirror. "Now,"
"But-" began Dalke.
"Did the Angels ask 'but' when God told them to create the world?" Mirror asked. "Did Fenrir, will Fenrir, say 'but' when he is stabbed by Tyr at the end of the world? Did Hamlet say 'But' when confronted with the ghost of his father? There are things we cannot explain, Dalke, but we would do well to see them through anyway." Mirror had come up closer to him "Don't say 'but,' 'why,' or 'how.' Do it. Pray that everything works out fine. See the beauty in simplicity. You must go back to sleep because you will destroy the Nightmare," Mirror grasped Dalke's hands. "Do not be afraid. Go back to sleep," he said.
Dalke compleid, going back up to his room and lying in bed. There was the horn, the beast, the dream. But Mirror's words echoed, and Dalke slept. There were no more bad dreams for a long while.

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Dalke, being the great student he was, went to a fine college where he spent all of his time. One night, when his roommate was with a woman of questionable aim, Dalke awoke to a horn. He was very afraid, and he went into the bathroom and pretended to smoke. He couldn't actually; his girlfriend wouldn't let him. You see, men, at least, are never truly free. But many, such as myself, do not seek to be.
There was an old man then, in the bathroom. Dalke was not as afriad this time as with Mirror. The man looked to be thousands of years old.
"Dalke," he said. "Thank you for going back to sleep. Thank you from all the Children of Bad Dreams." He was gone.
Dalke walked back to his bed, collapsed, and sat, trying to think of what to do.
He went back to sleep.