Count my fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. 

Six?

I wake up with a spasm. A throbbing pain from my left elbow tells me I've hit the wall again. I curse and rub it, wide eyes darting about my room. It's too dark to see anything, hear anything but my gasps. 

Stumbling through the darkness I yank open my curtains. In the early morning haze, squat semi-detached houses stare back at me. The whole neighbourhood, myself being the exception, is dead to the world. As usual. A sinking feeling enters my chest before I remind myself that it's a good thing. No neon-coloured skies, no talking squirrels, no fall leaves in the midst of spring. I smile and run my hand over my hair. As I head to the bathroom to take a shower, I find that I'm looking forward to another dull day.

...

Like clockwork, the satisfying ping of my toaster sounds at the same time I walk inside with newspaper in hand. Humming, I slather my toast with jam and prepare a cup of coffee. I sigh and take a seat at the dining table. A teddy bear sits in one chair, propped up by a stack of books. Another chair has a lady's scarf draped around it.

I try to focus on today's headline, but my hand drums restlessly against my thigh. I resist to glance at my watch again; I won't be able to root myself in this world's problems otherwise.  The urge itches like an infected wound. 

5:13 AM

5:13 AM

5:14 AM

At least I know this is the real world.

At least I know what time and day and month it is.

At least I'm not going crazy.

This is not going anywhere. I stand up with a new resolve, hoping this will ease the hammering in my chest.

I am going to take a walk.

...

The world is filled with frightening and unpredictable obstacles. Just moments ago I nearly stepped on a squirrel that ran over my feet in the pursuit of nuts. It didn't stop and question my satisfaction with my state in life, though. If there is one thing to be grateful for, it was that. I've had enough of the so-called extra-ordinary in the past few weeks.

I stop and lean against the tree that had made itself home on my lawn. As a precaution, I never take strolls outside the cul-de-sac of my street. It's safer that way. 

Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm not the only one who lives like this. Surely there's others who understand the dangers of the outside world. But once in a while, I'd catch a neighbour's odd glance aimed in my direction. I'd be more happy to explain to them, in a detached manner mind you, if not for the fact that they avoid talking with me. As if their life depended on it.

Perhaps I'm not as alone as I think. But then I remember the good doctor's warning about making my own assumptions.

"It's getting worse, isn't it," I say. "I never listen to the old fool, but he's been right all along." 

I think back to my last appointment. How the doctor recommended I try networking, or at least take my goddamn pills. I imagine him standing in front of me now, or off to the side, patiently listening to me.

"I'm doing well, as usual," I tell him. "Networking is highly dubious in this world; no one has half a mind to spare time for bonding. Has a high risk of failure too." I nod sagely. 

"And don't get me started on my pills. I want to stay awake, don't you see?" I spread out my arms. "Why dream when I can live in the real world? Why relive the fragments of your memories when it'll all be useless in the end?" 

I laugh. "Getting me to sleep...You're not trying to help me at all."

I stop as I catch a flicker of movement off to my left. Mrs. Turner is peeking at me through her curtains. She disappears, and with a dreadful realization I know what's coming next.

She hobbles out her door and takes her time down the stairs. I'm frozen to my spot. Eventually she makes it to my lawn. I smile and put my hands behind my back.

She squints at me. "Who'd you think you're talking to?" she demands.

She shakes her head. "Mm mm, mm mm. Not good, not good. I know that face from a million miles away. It's the face of a denier. So."

She plants her walking cane in the grass--my grass--and glares at me through milky eyes. "It's been a long time since I've talked to someone."

At last I gather the courage to string together a few words. "I-I'm sorry, I don't understand?" I splutter out. What am I supposed to do in this situation? Run? Be polite and start a conversation? Wouldn't it be more considerate not to, knowing how disastrous any of my interactions with other living beings have gone?

Mrs. Turner clucks. "You're a tight-lipped fella, aren't cha." She juts her thumb at herself. "Take it from me, young man. Dream while you still have something to aim for, hm? The stars won't stay out forever."

She takes one look at my face and cackles. I jump because it's the first time I've ever heard her utter such a sound. "Now that's the expression I was going for!" She turns around and hobbles back to her house. I do the same, though I don't remember climbing my own stairs and re-entering my home.

Knees buckling, I sink into my couch. Of all days, I decide to go outside on a Saturday. Every day, but especially Saturdays, are supposed to be uneventful. Some may call it boring, yet the monotony of life is an integral part of maintaining a stable mind. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes, trying to recall the breathing exercise the doctor taught me. 

What did she mean? I had everything that I could possibly keep without losing. Did she feel it so necessary to approach me so suddenly?

I shake my head. Clearly, the old hag wanted to mess with me.

But there's this tightness in my chest that's building, and it's not going away. I start to pace, then grab a piece of paper and pen. 

Dream while you still have something to aim for 

That's the face I was going for 

What part of her felt obliged to tell me these things? I'm doing my best. Isn't it enough?

Stars won't stay out forever 

Stars are irrelevant objects in the sky, the source of the wishful thinking that have plunged me into darkness. They are orbs of fire, not little metaphors to be linked with hope and dreams. 

Denier

Denier 

Denier

Dreams are fabrications of the mind, a utopian reality that remains unattainable. Human minds are glued to the mentality of possibility. But strip away possibility, and what you have left is true, solid reality. No heartbreak. No disappointment. No confusion between what is real and what is fiction.  

DENIER

DENIER 

DENIER

I scrawl out her words until my hand flops beside the pen, exhausted. I count my fingers. There are five on each hand, all bare except for one with a plain gold ring. I look around in my living room. What little furniture I have is accounted for. No one else is in the house except for me. 

I check my watch. 1:00 PM.

...

For the rest of the day, I do office work at home, with a cup of coffee as my dependable companion. Sometimes I bring my laptop to my dining table to feel less lonely. When my eyes start to droop, I put on cardio exercises and do them, only stopping when the burning storm of emotions in me has cooled and all that remains is sweat. I drink more coffee. Do more office work. Walk around my lit-up house. Try my best to ignore the silhouettes following me, only visible from the corner of my eye. I know they're there though, even if I'm not dreaming. Their presence is something I've grown to hate and find comforting simultaneously. 

Finally, when I'm certain that my brain is as close to dead as possible, I stumble to my room and collapse on my bed, welcoming another dreamless sleep.

Hello?

Hello?

A child's fingers lifts up my chin. I look up. His eyes are sad, like I've done something wrong. A woman's arms embrace me from behind, and I don't flinch as her warmth presses into me. I miss it so much. She murmurs something in my ear along with the child.

We're real, they say. We're real.

I wake up in a sweat. 3:30 AM.

I typed all of this up in one night. I don't think I've ever felt more inspired after a writer's block.

That being said...what are your thoughts? I'm more than sure that this story was confusing, but I want to know what you got out of it.

The prompt that got me to write this story is "A character finds the line between dreams and reality is blurring" or something to that degree. The idea is that the protagonist doesn't like dreams (and that extends to his dislike of sleeping, even though he's not very good at staying awake) because he often dreams of odd and absurd things which remind him of how he used to be before: an outgoing man with big dreams and expectations of himself and the world. Possibility and coincidence was how he met his wife and had a son, as well as losing them. 

Basically, the theme: The unpredictability of life.

[Note: I'm planning to come back to this one and take another stab at the idea.]