Night Demon

Part 1

            I pulled the lever, allowing a freshly created dream to exit the mixer into the real world. I watched dejectedly as it reached my target of interest. As the dream entered her sleeping mind, she sighed contentedly. This dream had been a success.

Not caring to watch any further, I turned to my chart, documenting the success of my assignment on paper. I'd nearly reached my quota of thirty dreams for the week. I took a long look at a separate column at the far right of the page. Two red exes bled from it, announcing to the entire company the most horrible mistake a dream-crafter could make – nightmares.

I hated that word – nightmare. Why did a bad dream have to be given such a frightful name, while good reams were left in peace?

It's because we're the defective ones, I thought bitterly. Nobody wants a bad dream around.

I sighed, cracking my long, spindly fingers. That was why I was here. A nightmare myself, I wasn't allowed the privileges allotted to the good dreams. In fact, I'd barely escaped the death penalty. My only crime was that of my own existence. I couldn't control that someone had created me. In my mind, that person was the one who should be punished.

I glanced back to the red exes defiling the page. There were only a few days left in the week. If I could only tread lightly and try my best to do my job right, I might still live to see another week. At the end of the week, my mistakes would be blotted out and I'd be able to start again fresh.

Over the next few days, I did just that. I avoided any mistakes that could have led to the conception of a nightmare, carefully mixing all of the components in exactly the way that management's instructions said. It sickened me to see those happy dreams go down, and it made me want to throw something when I saw the subconscious grins of delight that my labors resulted in. Why couldn't I be happy like that? On some days, this work nearly drove me to psychosis.

They already think we're psychotic, I thought glumly. It was common knowledge that nightmares were wicked, cruel, intentionally destructive beings. At least, that's what management told everyone. That's why we couldn't be treated the same as the Good. Our lives were a constant battle to stay alive.

My eyes lingered once more on the red exes. Just one more "x," just one more screw up, and I'd be back on death row. If I allowed for the birth of just one more nightmare, I would die. That was the way it worked.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded across the workshop floor. I craned my thin neck just in time to see a fellow nightmare-worker being closed in upon by factory police. The nightmare kicked up quite a fuss – begging, pleading, sobbing – until it was finally brought under control and dragged away.

That's unfortunate, I thought dismally, turning back to my work. That one had always been decently pleasant.

I didn't give the arrest much more thought. I, as well as all the others working the floor, knew exactly what was going on. The nightmare had reached its third screw-up for the week. That meant it would now face a very unnecessary mock trial, be convicted as guilty, and then be "released." Everyone knew that "released" was just a fancy way of saying executed.

"But the Good don't want to be seen as the bad-guys," I muttered to myself, licking my fanged, protruding teeth. I glanced nervously to one of the nearby security cameras. The last thing I needed was another reprimand for non-compliance.

After another hour of mixing up dreams and sending them down to earth, the morning bell rang. Finally, I could go and rest. I rose from my station and assimilated into the line of weary nightmares, each heading off to its own hole to rest and hide from the waking sun.