Dream-Hunters - Chapter Sixteen

In the early morning, every alarm clock is your mortal enemy. A dastardly foe that will stop at nothing to rip your soul from the utopia of slumber and shove you into a hellish morrow. This is what Tessa thought as she lay there in bed, with the clock on her dresser yelling at her to get the blazes up. The actual words that she uttered, however, were far less profound.

“Uhhh,” Tessa groaned, squirming her way free from the pleasant prison of her covers, falling gracelessly to the floor. She began to crawl drowsily toward her wooden dresser, creeping to the top and striking the alarm clock with the unbounded fury of a maiden ripped from her heavenly dream.

Sitting back on her feet, she yawned, stretching. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she took a moment to collect herself. My, what a night, she thought.

Grinning like an idiot, she stood up, reaching on top of the dresser again to feel around with her fingertips.

She grabbed her glasses, slipping them on deftly, and the world shot into sharp focus. Tessa swiveled her head, looking around her room. Her laptop still sat neatly on her desk, next to the reading lamp and an untouched mug of barley tea. Perfect.

Wasting no time, Tessa plunked down in her computer chair and took a quick draught of the tea, which had become cold and bitter overnight. Flipping the laptop open, she came to her desktop screen, with countless document files strewn messily about. She glared momentarily at them, her burning gaze scorning their very existence. All of them were flawed, unfinished stories, weighing her down like a beautiful lead necklace.

But she couldn’t bear to think of failure now. Like a thief in the night, genius had struck, and she hadn’t a second to lose. She quickly popped open a new file, giving it a title. Boy of My Dreams.

Her face flushed as she reminisced of John: Fearless, kind, incorrigible; and yet sour, sarcastic, and proud. Nevermind that he was only a dream; he was the perfect enigma to inspire her latest project. If she was lucky, she could even, maybe, perhaps, get one published.

She sighed, leaning her cheek on her fist. It still felt like a long shot, as long as the hours she’d wasted toiling at her fruitless hobby.

Shaking her despair off like the damp of spring rain, Tessa began to write. She overflowed her soul, pouring her heart into each and every word. With each passing phrase, her spirit grew like a balloon in her chest, as her fingers danced gracefully over the keys, a literary sonata in performance. The events of the night came rushing forth into her writing, the joy of capturing such wonder with words bathing her in waves of gushing jubilee. ...Until she read it back over and realized that it was all crap.

Suppressing her frustration, she moved to delete it, but her hideous draft was saved by a piercing tone that resounded throughout the household.

Tessa jumped in surprise and nearly spilled her tea. The doorbell? A guest had announced themselves at the threshold of her family’s suburban home.

She laid back in her chair for a moment, sighed, and went to answer it. It could be anyone, but she had one hope in particular. About a month ago, she’d entered a contest for young authors with a simple short story. Not that she stood much chance of winning, but hope was said to be the first step on the path to victory.

Slipping into what was probably proper attire, Tessa stumbled to the door as the bell rang again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she muttered spitefully.

Throwing the door wide, she glared at the stranger who stood before her. Then she gasped. “You’re that-”

“Nightmare you had last night, indeed I am,” Exem said, gazing down at her with his miasmic eyes. “Would you care to join me on a little trip?”