"There is no comfort. Our lives dismay us. We have dreams of leaving, and it's the same for everyone we know."

- George Orwell

╼⚘╾

See, the writer awoke to the soft sounds of the morning radio. Some man was foretelling the weather in New York: Thunderstorms.

Good, the writer thought, a tornado then? Perhaps a hale storm or freak tsunami will take my son?

Andrew listened to that crackling voice of the stranger for some time, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He didn't feel quite connected to reality. In fact, the writer didn't feel at all connected to reality. It was as if he was floating somewhere in between, caring out actions by instinct and not by logic.

"Papa! There's news from Germany!" A voice cried from the other room.

Andrew sluggishly got out of bed, finding himself already dressed in trousers and a vest. The writer made his way to the joint living room and kitchen, where his son and mother are gathered around the radio.

Peter has a novel written by his father, bookmarked, flat on his lap. Andrew noted that he never liked that particular story. It was one of his firsts: a shorter account of a boy who could play films in his head. It was almost a biography, though the characters had different names.

No, Andrew didn't like that one. Everyone else seemed to, though. Perhaps the writer, as writers are, was too judgmental of his work.

"Is something happening?" Andrew asked, nodding to the radio, which was now only static and whispering in the background.

"Don't know," Peter responded, "They interrupted for news overseas, and it's been silent since."

Mrs. Anderson mumbled, "Must be important." Silently, Andrew gave a terse nod.

The writer rubbed his tired eyes and looked around the room. He wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, but he decided after a moment that it must be caffeine. His feet carried him to the kitchen, where some coffee was brewing near the stove. It was black, but he didn't mind.

Andrew focused on pouring the cup and not on the static behind him. However, when he lifted his head, his eyes connected with a date circled on the calendar: the 30th of April, 1945.

The date was familiar. But only barely, and the sentence that Andrew spoke next came out as a question rather than the statement he intended, "Hitler is dead?"

Peter's head shot up, brows furrowed he looked to his father. The child parted his lips to speak but was silenced by the radio announcement.

"Breaking news from Germany now at 12:40 p:, Nazi dictator Adolf Hitler has died!."

All eyes fell on Andrew as the radio went on.

"The so-called Fuhrer committed suicide by gunshot around 4:00 pm Berlin time, 10 am here. He was found in a Berlin bunker, along with his newlywed wife, Eva Braun. More from our insider ---"

No one (with the exception of the radio voice) talked for a long moment after that.

Mrs. Anderson smiled first, "Hitler's dead!" she declared, "We should celebrate."

With that, the wall of awkwardness fell, and an ecstatic conversation ensued over the death of the truly evil man.

"I'll call everyone I know! Peter, grab the phone book."

"Does this mean the war's over?"

"No, there's still Japan."

"We'll beat Japan."

"Of course we will!"

"When will the soldiers come home?"

"Hello? It's Carol. Are you listing to the news?"

The flurry of excitement lasted for the better part of an hour. The elder Andersons had a glass of champagne. Peter, thinking very little of alcohol, had a soda from the fridge. The three gave cheers to a swift end to the war.

As others heard the news, celebration broke out in the halls of the apartment building and down below on the streets.

It was almost funny that the morbid tragedy of life-long lost would strike such joy in the hearts of sentimental people.

The writer had heard of the 'celebration of life' that sometimes follows the passing away of an individual. This was not a 'celebration of life. It was quite the opposite. And while the notion was justified, there was still something unnatural about it.

Eventually, all the giddiness died down, at least within the walls of the Andersons' home.

It was still raining, which was strange. Indeed the sky had gotten news that today was a joyous occasion—no need for it to sob.

The wind and the rain and thunderclaps and the lightning strikes had caused the young Anderson boy to curl up on the couch with a blanket and warm milk. He listened with peace to the deep voices on the radio that gave a gory explanation of the dictator's suicide.

Sooner or later, Andrew decided to join his son. Peter sat close. Andrew was reminded of days when the same child, though a toddler, would cry with the thunder and burrow next to his father in search of comfort and warmth.

The writer found the novel that Peter was reading and scanned it for mistakes and plot holes. Of course, this book was already published, and revising it would do nothing but bring some satisfaction to the author.

This tableau remained for some time. It was a lovely peaceful moment in the midst of war and destruction.

Surely, in some other country far away and father and son were fighting, crying, screaming into the abyss about the death of some man with a mustache.

But here, now, a writer held his son and read a book—both fully content and at peace with the outcome of the morning.

With the warmth and victory that was this rainy day, Peter began to fall asleep. But before his eyes could drift shut, he asked a question.

"Papa?" he inquired.

"Yes, Peter?"

"How did you know that Hitler would die?"

Those words were the end of all peace.

Amid long-lost happiness, Andrew almost forgot the confusing reality of this situation. He, for a moment, forgot that this would be the sixth time he'll be forced to watch Peter die. He forgot that he was trapped in some evil time loop watching his nightmares come true again and again and again and again and again and--

"Papa?"

Andrew took a deep breath and answered simply, "I don't know. It might be intuition; it's probably just a coincidence. It's funny, no?"

"Yeah," Peter yawned and closed his eyes, "funny."

╼⚘╾

Peter was asleep in a few minutes. It took a few more for Mrs. Anderson to leave the room, leaving Andrew alone.

The writer now had only one goal, a task that he should've started sooner. Carefully, Andrew moved from Peter's side. He made sure to situate the boy's blanket and fluff his pillow. Then, he made his way to the kitchen.

Andrew didn't want to wake Peter. He didn't want to concern the boy with his hopeless endeavor. Peter, as was seen through experience, was eager to help his father when he learned what was happening. During some time of his delusional state, Andrew had decided that he didn't want Peter to have to work against these nightmares.

The writer blamed himself for the bad dreams. The last thing he wanted to do was succumb his son to mornings of dread and days of terror.

With this in mind, Andrew worked quietly. Finding the phonebook that his mother had left out and flipped through the names as fast as he could. His eyes scanning for the letters that formed the title of some black-haired nurse, who seemed to have all the answers.

Finally, he found it: Rebecca Dawson.

Andrew dialed the number as fast as he could. Adrenaline was a pivotal sponsor to his rush. He only stopped for a brief second when Peter stirred at the sound of the dial recoiling.

Rebecca answered almost immediately.

"Hello, Mr. Anderson," she said in a cheerful voice.

"I didn't introduce myself," Andrew said plainly.

Rebecca chuckled, "You didn't need to. Who else would call me?"

No one spoke.

Rebecca continued, "I presume you have questions, Concerns perhaps."

"Concerns?" the father exclaimed madly, "I watched my child die five different times, and I'm the only one who remembers anything of it. I think we've long passed concerns." then calmer, "Tell me how to fix this."

"What exactly do you want fixed?"

It was an odd question. But it was soon followed up by an explanation from the woman.

"See Mr. Anderson, I know no more than you. In fact, I know exactly as much as you. All be it, I'm someone your mind created. It seems very plausible that you created all of this. It makes sense. You are a writer who makes his own stories. This time, though, you're the main character."

Andrew took in the words about as well as a dog takes in commands from his owner: bits and pieces made sense, but all together, there was no explaining in this explanation.

"Like a dream?" Andrew asked.

Rebecca responded, "If that's what you want to call it."

Andrew thought for a moment, "So, I'll just wake up, and it'll all be over. Easy."

Rebecca hummed in agreement.

It was an anti-climatic solution, to say the least. Though the writer supposed, it made sense. He knew the science behind dreaming. He knew that plotlines tended to reflect either what you wish or what you fear. And he knew that characters were based on people the dreamer knew. All of this was true for his current state—all except this outlier Dawson girl.

The writer breathed a sigh of relief. Alas, he could return to where he belongs. Where was that, though? The memory, or lack of, hit him all at once, "I don't remember what it's like to be awake. I don't remember what was normal."

A long pause and telephone static came from the other end. Then quietly, "You do."

It was almost frustrating. This woman only talked in riddles and half-answers.

"I don't," He grumbled—another round of thunder echoing through the room.

"You don't want to remember," she corrected, her voice low and serious, "but you do."

Footsteps clattered down the hallway at a slightly rushed pace. Mrs. Anderson perked up and smiling. She worked without a care, babbling, "The ceiling's leaking in the bedroom. I'm looking for something to catch the water. Do-- oh!"

Mrs. Anderson fell silent when she spotted her son on the phone. "Who are you talking to?" she whispered. He only lifted his finger to his lips.

She nodded and dotted over her sleeping grandson.

Andrew spoke into the phone, "Just tell me how to fix this, please!"

"What needs to be fixed?" Mrs. Anderson whispered loudly. Andrew didn't answer.

"Rebecca!" He demanded into the phone.

Mrs. Anderson again, "Who's Rebecca?"

Over the phone, Rebecca's static voice came, "Mr. Anderson, please. Try to remember what happened. Try to remember what caused you to dream in the first place."

"I can't!"

"You can."

Their conversation was cut off by a deafening crash of thunder and flash of lightning: Strong enough to make Peter burst awake. The telephone line crackled and broke. The sounds of someone trying to talk mixed with a murmured "wake up" were the last thing Andrew heard before the thing went dead.

He set the telephone down on its stand.

"Did the storm break it up?" Mrs. Anderson asked.

The writer was about the nod but was cut off by his tired child suddenly perking up and saying in a gut striking seriousness, "Do you hear that?"

At that moment, a sickening jumble of crashes and cracks spread through the ceiling as the entire thing came falling down and flames spread through the apartment.

It happened so fast. Too fast. Andrew heard faint screams before passing out.

╼⚘╾

Mr. Anderson shook Andrew awake. He opened his eyes to find that the world was black and smokey, that his apartment was burning at the seems, and bits and beams of the ceiling had fallen.

The writer moaned and shook his head, "what happened?" he asked without complete coherence.

"I don't know. Something with the storm and the pipes. Andrew... Peter"

It struck like lightning.

"Peter! Where is he!" he demanded.

Sadly, Mrs. Anderson looked behind her where the child lay in the broken remains of the couch, crushed by a fire-covered beam. Mrs. Anderson couched, her eyes welling with tears. She might've whispered something about leaving or running, but Andrew couldn't hear it. His mind was too focused on his kid.

"Go, Run!" Andrew urged, pushing his mother away, "I've got him."

She cried his name once before leaving. Andrew worked his way to his feet and ran (If it was what you could call running, to Peter.

The poor boy's eyes were opened, and his mouth moved as if wanting to speak. He was distraught. When his eyes connected with Andrew's, every muscle in his face made the same expression: 'help me.

"I've got you, baby boy," Andrew whispered.

The beam was situated over Peter's legs, and his arms and shoulders were left flailing on the ground. The skin beneath the beam burned and boiled. Andrew tried with all his might to move the beam. Alas, it was too big and too heavy.

Andrew heaved his body against it again and again, but the same useless result always came.

Peter murmured something while staring at his father, but it was too quiet, too weak.

Andrew didn't move the beam until Peter coughed something harsh and wet. It was that sound that forced his father the use all the might in his body to lift the beam off his boy. His success was almost inhuman.

Though weak and injured, Peter tried as he could to worm himself out from under the beam. He had tears streaming down his ashen face and his hands contorted in frustration and pain.

Through sickened teamwork, Andrew heaved the beam away while Peter wiggled away. The piece of wood came down with a bang when Andrew's arms gave out, and he had to drop it.

Peter went limp with his newfound freedom.

"No, no, no, no!" Andrew pleaded, "We have to go. We have to leave the building."

Peter mumbled and cried. Andrew grabbed Peter by the armpits and dragged him to the door. The doorway, which was still standing, was where he swept one arm under his child's abused legs and carried him away.

They ran down the stairs and through the hallway. Flames crept up the walls and lit the ceiling. Andrew didn't stop for one moment to take the sight in.

He burst outside and nearly collapsed once his feet hit the pavement. His son rolled from his arms no more than ten yards away from the building. He flopped onto the concrete beside him, huffing and coughing for air.

"Andrew!" screamed Mrs. Anderson's voice. The writer could hear her shoes pounding against the ground as she ran, "Andrew, baby! Peter!"

Suddenly, the woman's face came into view. She murmured motherly anxieties as she switched between crying over Andrew or Peter.

Andrew tried to sit up, fighting against all the black in his lungs. He coughed terribly. Mrs. Anderson waved frantically for a doctor to come to their aid.

Soon paramedics were at their sides. Everything was moving much too fast. Andrew barely registered the instructions being told to him or the doctors touching him and pressing things to his face.

Instead, Andrew watched as a nurse with back hair took Peter's pulse. She shook her head and started chest compressions. Andrew counted the rhythm. He tapped his fingers along with the beat.

Andrew wanted to reach for Peter. He wanted to stop the inevitable, but he was just so goddamn tired.

He was tired of reliving nightmares again and again and again. He was tired of waking up in denial and continuing his day without rhyme or reason. He was tired of guessing what would come next. He was especially tired of carrying all these memories, all this trauma everywhere he went.

He was tired. He was sick. He was done!

In some horrible, twisted way, Andrew almost wanted Peter to die. He wanted to get it done and over with if it meant that he could continue without excisional dread.

That want was expelled from his mind far too quickly. Of course, he didn't really want that. For, living a life without the one boy who brings him joy was so frightening that his mind as well continues in this loop forever rather than face that reality.

At least, in this circle of horror, the writer got to wake up to the sound of his son's laugh. He got to see his smile and hear his voice.

He wouldn't trade that for the world.

So, the writer, who had crafted so many realities before, strayed away from his own, wanting desperately to hold on to something different.

Watching the nurse pull away from his son and mournfully declare time of death, the writer breathed a simple command,

"...no..."