The Hunger of Dreams

The Hunger of Dreams

Angela woke from her deep sleep with a violent start, the alarm ringing in her ears, demanding her attention. This morning, she felt no desire to do so. She silenced the alarm and dragged the blanket over her head, wanting to shut out the world for just a few more minutes.

The moment she closed her eyes, the images flooded back. The dream returned, the same dream that had tormented her for weeks. She opened her eyes again at once, as though light alone could chase away the images filling her mind.

For weeks she had endured the same dream. No matter how she tried to push her thoughts towards something brighter, the dream clawed its way back, stubborn and unchanged. The details shifted, but the feeling never changed. Angela found herself lost in a place that was always unfamiliar. She wandered through darkness, searching for something she could never name. A sense of danger pressed in on her. She felt watched by something hidden in the shadows, something patient, something waiting.

She always woke before she found what she thought she was supposed to find. The frustration followed her into daylight, settling in her chest like a weight she could not shift. Even during the simplest moments of her day, the feeling of loss followed her, as though she was missing something important that was just out of reach.

She went to work as usual, dragging herself into the same dull office she had tolerated for eight long years. She liked the people well enough, but the work drained her. She lacked the will to search for something better, so she stayed where she was, repeating the same tired routine.

At five o clock she switched off her computer, grabbed her bag and hurried out. Thursdays marked the end of her working week. Normally she met Carlos for drinks and dinner, a small weekly treat. Sometimes she went home with him, sometimes she went home alone. Tonight, she wanted neither. The relentless dreams had exhausted her. She stopped at the shop, picked up a bottle of gin and a ready meal, and retreated home.

That night she slept deeply with the help of the gin. When she woke, she whispered a thank you to the universe for giving her a night without dreams. It was still dark; her room swallowed in shadows. She rubbed her eyes and reached for the light sensor beside her bed. She waved her hand. Nothing. She tried again, irritation rising. Still nothing. She cursed aloud, annoyed at both the darkness and the price she would pay to fix it

Her anger dragged her out of bed. Blind in the unlit room, she pressed her hands along the walls. It should have been easy, but something felt wrong. The wall seemed endless, as though the room had grown while she slept. Her sense of direction dissolved. The door was gone. She circled the room again, imagining where the door should be. Still nothing. Frustration shifted to confusion.

She forced herself to calm down and tried again. The door remained absent. Panic tightened her chest. She felt her way around again and again. Her breath grew hot and sharp, scraping her throat as though she were suffocating.

She closed her eyes to steady herself. When she opened them, she saw a faint glimmer on the right-hand wall. A small light. Within it something crouched. It was tiny and shapeless at first, but appeared to be alive, not an object. Angela kept her eyes fixed on it as she moved across the room.

The closer she came, the more the light faded. At last, it vanished completely. At that moment the blinds shot up and daylight poured in. Angela jolted awake. She had forgotten to switch off the automatic setting that occurred at daylight. Relief washed over her. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes again.

The next five nights were different, now the place she visited seemed less intimidating and more inviting. She slept; in her dream state she found herself inside a different room of the same strange house each night. She had never seen it in reality, yet she knew it intimately, as though she had lived there for years. One night she even reached the garden, but she woke before stepping beyond its edge. The light always appeared towards the end, continuing to hide its secret, always vanished before she reached it.

Angela began to crave the night. What once felt like wasted hours now felt like her true life. She longed for the house. She longed for the moment the light appeared. She longed for the knowledge she could never quite grasp.

On the sixth night she closed her eyes with something close to joy. Sleep claimed her quickly. The house waited, bright and warm. Since that first night when the light appeared, she had never again seen it in darkness.

She sat in the lounge, settled into a chair that felt familiar, almost comforting. She listened to birdsong through the open window and watched deer move across the distant field. Then the light appeared.

She stood, ready to leave as she always did, but this time the light grew brighter. Angela stopped, unsettled. The shape within it began to sharpen. An animal. Limbs, a tail, pale fur. Perhaps a cat.

She stepped closer. The light lifted away, revealing a large white cat. A strange familiarity pulled at her. The cat seemed pleased to see her. It curled around her legs, urging her to touch it.

Then, as always, daylight dragged her back to the real world.

For the next three nights she returned to both the house and the cat. Leaving grew harder each time. Her real life, once merely dull, now felt suffocating. She hurried through her days only to reach nightfall. She filled her evenings with anything that shortened the hours until sleep.

Then the dreams stopped.

One night passed. Then another. Then five. She slept, but the sleep was empty, colourless, bare. No house. No cat.

Her nights became hollow as did the days that followed them.

She withdrew from her friends. She stopped caring about work. She felt hollowed out. Something vital was missing. When she shut her eyes, she felt sick with longing.

In desperation she visited a group of mystics. They promised sleep and access to gentle dreams. They gave her meditation exercises and a plant-based medicine. That night the world blurred, her thoughts drifting, her limbs heavy. She slipped into sleep.

She saw the house. But the door was closed. She stood there for the entire dream, waiting to be let in. The house did not allow her access.

It was worse than darkness. It was rejection.

The next morning, she could not face reality. She stayed in bed, begging sleep to return her to the house. Nothing came. She felt true grief, the kind that steals breath and reason, hurting both physically and mentally as she continued to crave the house.

She stayed in bed for two days, falling in and out of shallow, dreamless rest. The emptiness grew unbearable.

Finally, in a moment of despair, she took the rest of the plant extracts she had been provided with. She could not bear one more night without the house. She hid under her duvet, breathing in darkness like air.

The dream returned. The house stood before her. The cat sat in the window.

But the door would not open.

She pulled the handle until her hands ached. She beat her fists against the wood. She screamed for someone to let her inside. The more she begged, the further the house seemed to drift away, as though retreating from her cries.

She collapsed on the cold grass. The chill seeped into her bones. She curled into herself, shivering. Loss tore through her, sharp enough to feel like pain. Without the house she felt she had nothing left.

She remained on the grass all night, waiting for the door to open.

In reality Angela lay in bed for three days before a friend found her. She had slipped quietly into eternal sleep.

In the dream she still lies outside the house, curled on the cold ground, waiting for the doors to open.