"HIGH-STRUNG" in "WRITER@WORK: Stories From A Lone, Urban Girl"

There are freaky dreams you never want in your sleep. Still, they occur anyway. It begins with a song you know (and have a love-and-hate feeling with) so well in the background:

“Broken hearts, broken dreams
There’re just some things love brings
when you learn that it’s all been a lie
you cry, you find that…”

You see yourself walking down a pretty crowded street. You know you’re all alone, because you seem to be walking on an opposite direction of everyone else around you. No one is walking with you.

You know you’re not in a tropical city. There are very few cars and bikes passing by on the road. The weather is cold. People around you are either in their coats or jackets. Misty fogs come out of open mouths, including yours too.

Only in thin, long-sleeved, dark T-shirt and jeans, you walk on. You can feel the cold biting into your skin. However, you don’t care. The song in the background somewhere continues:

“Nothing…nothing…nothing hurts like love…
Nothing brings your heart so much pain
and you’ll never learn ‘til you get burned
‘Til you’re burned by the flames
Nothing hurts so bad, nothing hurts so much…
No, nothing…hurts…like love…”

You keep on walking, literally against the cold breeze. After a while, you start hearing other footsteps behind you, coming your way. Someone is following you.

“So you gave all you had
How the story turned so sad
Nothing left but the tears in your eyes
You die…inside ‘cause…”

“Hey.” No, he can’t be talking to you. Walk faster. Pick up your pace before he keeps up with you.

“Please, slow down. I just want to talk to you.”

Damn. You’re too slow. Now he’s walking right beside you. You don’t want that. You can’t really see his face and don’t even want to. He’s offering something for you to wear, though.

His jacket.

You scoff and quicken your pace even more. He refuses to give up and still follows you, holding his jacket. No idea why he’s so persistent, almost stubborn.

“Please,” he pleads, “your hands are freezing.”

You don’t even need to look. You can feel them. Once you do, you can see what seems to scare him more. Your hands are pale, your fingers turning blue. Somehow, you’re still so adamant.

“So?”

“I need you to trust me.”

That does it. I need you. I. Need. You. Your temper flares up as you silently choke back on your tears. He’s supposed to say that you can trust him. He’s safe.

Why does it always have to be about what he wants? What about what you want? He obviously still focuses on himself!

“He said that too,” you reply coldly. You’re surprised with how hollow your own voice sounds. “He said that to me too the last time. I believed him. Look what happened.”

“I’m not him.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

You know you sound cruel and judgmental. You don’t care. Right now, all you want is to get away. You’re scared.

“So dry your eyes
It’s just your turn to learn
To see that nothing, nothing…nothing…”

You finally wake up at the end of the song. It has felt like almost an hour and a half, until you check the clock and realise one thing:

It only lasted for 30 minutes.

Strange dream, indeed.

R.

(The song in the dream: “Nothing Hurts Like Love” by.Daniel Bedingfield: