The Boy From the Basement; Book One

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams

            It’s the same dream I have. Whenever I close my eyes, I see that dream or nothing. The very dream that haunts me. Not a minute goes by that I don’t think about it. This dream has haunted me since I was just a little girl. I can't really remember when they first started appearing.

            I do remember screaming and my parents rushing through the bedroom door. During my episode they try to calm me but I can’t seem to stop freaking out. Two years later—they can’t take it anymore. For seven years I have been put in front of several doctors, therapist, and psychiatrist. I have undergone several crucibles. They test my wit and mental, physical, and emotional health. None of them have been able to stop the dreams or figure out what they mean. My parents have pretty much given up the fact that I can be helped.

            “This is good.” My aristocratic psychiatrist says with an even tone. Dr. Davis is the eleventh professional to have a whack at me. She is a slender and tall woman with long frayed red hair. She sports the same red lipstick everyday and speaks in a tone that says “I am too good for the world, including you.” 

            My parents think I am crazy but Dr. Davis, my psychiatrist says I am “creative”. She also said I was unique and that it is extraordinary how I can recall so much information from a dream, which just so happens to be the reason why my parents think I am making it all up. Why would I make any of this up? Why would I purposely scream and wither in pain?

            “Tell me the dream again. Vivid detail.” Dr. Davis says. I sigh and lean back in the armchair that is just a little too comfortable. I play with my hoodie and finally cave. At this point, I just want to leave.

            I am in a room—a basement I think. The floors are cement and there aren’t any windows. It smells dewy and I could practically feel the moisture in the air. My vision is slightly blurry and I feel a haze over my head. When I look down at myself I don’t see my hands but a man's hands—a particularly strong set of hands.

             I suddenly become a third person and I can see the man fully. It’s like I am out of his body. He isn’t a man—but a teenage boy—young adult even? He has blonde hair and as he looks ahead I can see he has blue eyes. The guy doesn’t look scared but I can see he is nervous. I could feel my third person self blush because he isn’t wearing a shirt and he has abdomen muscles like none I have ever seen before besides on those rip off workout commercials. He doesn’t notice my ghostly self as he looks around. He is trapped in a metal chair and his hands and feet are chained. He is sweating all over his body now and his blonde hair is damp. I have this pull to touch it but I stay put and then I am quickly back in his body.

            I can feel everything he is feeling. I can feel the fever he is trying to ignore and the too fast of a heartbeat he has. There is a very loud noise—a door slamming, his ears determine. I feel like I am trapped in his body witnessing everything. In his hazy and blurry vision I see a face appear in front of him. Masculine. Older. Tall. Bulky. I think that it reminds me of my father but my father is a kind man. This man has the look of death and all seriousness on his face from what I can make out. His emotions—the boy’s emotions overwhelm me tremendously as I spot the older man. He walks around us—him in a circle. I get a much trapped feeling—I can’t escape. I won’t be able to escape. I know that I will have to stay and endure whatever this boy is going to.

            “I don’t have to do this every time if you give me what I need.” The older man said seriously. I can’t really recognize his voice but it sounds almost fatherly and stern. The boy that I was inside just merely twitches a little. When the older man comes back into view—he has a wrench of some kind—a heavy one. Now the boy is scared—this teenage boy fears he will die. But somehow I know that he won’t, that he can endure this—whatever this is.