Let's Go For A Ride

I’m driving so fast that I nearly hit the guardrails. It reminds me of twenty years ago, when I played that old racing game on my PlayStation 2—my focus was razor-sharp, and I responded to every twist and takeover with unflinching precision. The flyover is slick with light rain, and I can almost smell the thrill in the air—the dampness of the asphalt mixing with the electric scent of anticipation. Streetlights cast a dull orange glow on the concrete floor, flickering slightly as I pass beneath. Ancient apartment blocks stand just beyond the edge of the bridge, so close I could almost reach out and touch them. If I slowed down even a little, I might catch glimpses of people’s furniture inside their windows.

Adrenaline courses through my stomach and trembles in my arms. For a moment, I’m invincible. I realise I’ve been driving flawlessly for twenty minutes. But just as that awareness dawns on me, I lose my concentration.

My tires slip. The car spins.

But it doesn’t stop—doesn’t screech to a halt or crash. It just keeps drifting forward, sliding with eerie weightlessness down the flyover. I panic. My hands clutch the steering wheel, but it’s useless now. I’ve lost control. I jab at buttons and slam on the brake. Nothing responds.

Then suddenly—I can’t move.

The world compresses around me like a shrinking sphere. The streetlights, the road, the apartments—they begin to warp, bending and distorting like melting smiles with sharp teeth. I try to breathe, but I can’t. My chest is locked. I’m trapped in a nightmare.

This has been the third one this week—with sleep paralysis. In Chinese, we call it “鬼压床” (gǔi yā chuáng)—literally, “a ghost pressing on the bed.” A devil sits on your chest, holding you down. That’s what it feels like. You can’t move. You can’t scream. You’re aware of the horror, but utterly powerless within it.

On Sunday, I got stuck in a never-ending loop inside a grimy public toilet. On Wednesday, I wandered through a glitched Teletubbies world, the sun frozen in a distorted grin.

I can’t sleep anymore. Or at least, not peacefully. In my dreams, I’m always running—or searching. I don’t know what I’m fleeing from, or what I’m chasing. But I always end up finding something I didn’t want to find—like a faceless ghost crouched beneath my office desk. Or whispers that begin faint and then crescendo, flooding my ears until they drown out everything else.

I cry in my dreams. I try to scream, to call for help—but no sound escapes. My wife sometimes wakes me up. She shakes me, pushes me, even slapped me once when I wouldn’t respond. She said I was twitching, breathing heavily—like I was drowning in my own mind. I wake up drenched in sweat, my mouth dry, my chest tight. It’s always around 3 a.m. The world outside is pitch black and still.

I sit up in bed, the silence pressing in like a blanket soaked in dread. I grab the water bottle by my side, take a gulp, then lie down again—trying to empty my mind, hoping that sleep will return without dragging me back into that place. Most of the time, it doesn’t. I just lie there, blinking in the dark, waiting for my alarm to go off.

I’ve started asking myself—why is this happening? And why now? The answer came to me during one of Ronan’s speeches.

Ronan—my boss—is the founder of the company I work for. He started it eleven years ago. He’s short, bald, loud, and always trying to be inspirational. But when he talks, it’s hard to focus on anything except a stray fly buzzing near the whiteboard or some random pen mark on the table. Anything to make the time pass faster.

I stopped listening to him a long time ago. I’ve realised—deep down, we’re sinking. The business is failing. You can see it in the overcompensation—the new sports car, the trust-locked properties, the seven million dollars pumped into renovating our modest office like it was a tech unicorn’s HQ.

You can hear it in the lies. The day he asked me to fabricate financial projections for investor reports—reports he still sends out to his rich friends even after I refused to touch them—that was the day I knew. The day I felt sick. I felt like listening to Dutch from Red Dead Redemption 2, hearing that tired refrain over and over again: “I have a plan.”

Maybe I always knew. But I kept hoping. For some foolish reason, I kept hoping.

I started reading about Buddhism, looking for peace, for answers. But no Buddha came to me. No enlightenment, no truth—just silence. Maybe that’s the answer in itself.

I’m an atheist, after all. I don’t expect divine intervention. And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing: even Buddha can’t lie to me. And I can’t lie to myself—not anymore.

Eventually, Ronan’s voice stopped. I only noticed because the noise in the room finally died. In the silence, I looked out the window. The streetlights were still there—those pale, watchful eyes, casting white beams onto the empty car park. A few lonely cars sat idle in the wind.

I turned my head. Cold chicken and limp chips sat in the centre of the boardroom table.

I broke the silence. “Do you want to go for a ride?”

Ronan looked up. “Sure,” he replied, without inflection. He always tries to sound animated, but I’ve learned to see past that. There’s nothing behind the voice. Maybe there never was.

We went downstairs and got into my company car. I turned the key, engine humming. I didn’t need to check the GPS—I already knew where I was going.

I drove. Fast.

So fast I nearly hit the rails again. Ronan yelled at me, panicking, telling me to slow down. But why would I slow down? He drives like a lunatic anyway. Doesn’t matter now.

It felt just like twenty years ago, back on my PlayStation 2. The rain was falling lightly again, just like before. The flyover shimmered. I smelled the excitement in the air—same as always. The streetlights cast their orange glow. The old apartment buildings stood watch over the road, and in the flickering reflections, I thought I saw office chairs. I thought I saw our glass whiteboard, floating behind some window curtain.

Adrenaline surged again, crashing through me like a tidal wave.

Then, finally—I let go.

I swerved.

The car burst through the guardrail. Ronan, the business, the lies—all of it flew off the edge into the night. Gone.

I opened my eyes.

And I woke up.

From the last nightmare.