Wake Up Call

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"Sleep- those little slices of death- how I loathe them" ~Edgar Allan Poe



They are a succession of images, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in the mind during sleep.

Some people hardly remember their dreams when they wake up. Others remember their dreams but brush them aside as some fabrication of their mind rather than dwelling on the psychoanalysis of it all.

However, there is a percentage, a very small percentage, whose dreams are real. Memories that haunt in the realm of sleep. Horrid incidents that play over and over and over again. Plagued by screams that echo on the tip of tongues, these dreams destroy the solitude of sleep.

Dreams are the real demons.


Burning flesh has a distinct smell. It stays with you- no matter what. It doesn't smell like cooking meat as some people assume, but acrider. It was that smell that swarmed up Jack Rhodes' nose, choking him, causing his lungs to throb with effort.

Blood pooled, slicking the muddy ground. The blood of his soldiers-comrades-his brothers in arms.

He couldn't save them all.

No matter how hard he fought.

He couldn't even save one.   

And then there was the noise. So much noise and at the same time, there was nothing. 

Gunfire echoed in his ears, deafening him. Flashing pulses of light, signaling the discharge of yet another gun streamed through the air.

The darkness ate up his screams and stole his tears of despair which steadily flooded his face.




Jack awoke with a cold sweaty film covering his torso. He sucked in wide gasps of air and tried to calm his racing heart.

The alarm clock on the nightstand read 4:35 am.

3 hours of sleep- that's gotta be a new record

He rolled over to see the sleeping doctor lying beside him.


Beside him was an overstatement.

She was actually on the other side of the room, lying face-down on a queen bed. She was in the exact same spot he had dropped her in 3 hours prior when he had blindly stumbled into the room.

After he had corralled her into his car and weaseled her room number out of her, V.C. had fallen asleep, head tilted against the window.

So deciding that he would probably not get another moment of peace and quiet, he didn't wake her. Instead, Jack heaved her out of the car and carried her to bed.

Which was no easy feat.

The woman was heavy.

And she talked.

He thought he would be safe from her continuous blabber for the night but alas- he was not. She was an avid sleep-talker.

And it wasn't cute little mumblings that make people go  'Awh'.

But something along the lines of verbal warfare. Sometimes she spoke English. Other times she tried to give him a heart attack by shouting out in German.  And then on the rarest of occasions, absolute gibberish flooded the room.

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