Living in Dreams Awake Part 1

Living in Dreams Awake Part 1

I was standing in a dark, cold room with a wood chair in the middle. On the north wall in front of me was a window, holding a dim light from another room. I slowly walked toward the dirty, foggy window, pressing my palms against the glass when I got in reach. The window was freezing cold, colder than anything I had ever experienced. I quickly pulled my hands back, stunned by the arctic cold feeling. My eyes squinted, trying to see through the smudges and the filth that was coated on the cracked glass. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach when I saw him. I didn’t know who he was, but my heart was calling out to him. He looked no older than twenty five. He was tied against a wooden chair, exactly like the one in the room I was in. His white shirt was blood stained, and torn. His muscular arms were bloody and cold. He had cuts and bruises all across his chest, which was rising and falling very slowly with every breathe he took. His head was hanging, concealing his broken face. His golden blonde hair was blowing lightly in the cold wind from the vent above his head. A thin trail of blood ran down from his forehead, onto his cheek, then onto his shirt, causing the stains to become deeper and darker in their red color. His posture was strong, but broken. He wasn’t fighting anymore. His soft looking skin was pale, like he had endured this kind of torture for days. His eyes were closed, carrying him somewhere far away. It appeared that his physical being was tied to the chair in the room, but HE was not there at all.
I pounded on the freezing window, trying desperately to get his attention, but it seemed the louder I pounded, the softer the impact on the glass became. As my arms began to ache from hitting the glass, the room I was in got colder. A shiver ran up and down my spine, causing my entire body to shake. I ceased my failing attempt to get his attention and wrapped my arms around my body, trying to conserve my body heat. My eyes never left him though, they were locked in place. Something about him was causing my heart to race, like he was the most important person in my life. Why was I so concerned for his well being? He was a stranger to me. Why did my heart ache for him?
My wondering ceased when the door in his room swung open forcefully, causing my heart to skip a beat. Three men entered the small, claustrophobic room. They were all wearing black, as if they had just come from a funeral. The first man to enter was short and chubby. He had a small mustache growing underneath his nose, which was bigger than any nose I had ever seen. He could give Pinocchio a run for his money. His hair was extremely short and gray. He was clearly the oldest of the three men. He grabbed a chair that was concealed in the dark corner and placed it right in front of the mysterious stranger that was so important to me. He sat on it backwards, so his stomach was pressed against the back of the chair. He stared at the younger man in the chair across from him, ready to look him in the eyes if he were to look up. He didn’t. The stranger hadn’t moved an inch, even with the other men’s loud entrance. It was like he hadn’t even heard them. I found myself glued to the window that was separating me from the four men. My palms were pressing so hard on the glass that I thought it was going to break under the pressure, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I could save the stranger that I was so attached to. My body was shaking with nerves and chills. My palms were stinging from the cold glass. The room I was in was arctic now, my lips were turning purple, and I could barely breathe. I stared intently at my stranger, not paying attention to the other men standing around him.
“What is your name,” the old man sitting in the chair asked. There was no response. Maybe the stranger was deaf. “What is your name,” the man asked again a little more agitated. No response. The old man sighed loudly, and nodded to the man on his left. The man took a step toward the bruised man tied in the chair and curled his left hand into a fist. With a smirk on his face he pulled his arm back and swung it forward, right into the bloody cheek of the stranger. Blood flew to the floor right in between the old man in the chair and the stranger being tortured. Then the man on the right took a step forward and followed in the other mans footsteps. He punched the man even harder than the other did. The strangers’ expression stayed the same. How could he just sit there and take this pain? Didn’t he have anything to live for? Why wasn’t he fighting back? The two men that were taking turns using him as a punching bag stepped back suddenly to allow the old man to talk again.
“Your making this hard on yourself you know,” he said. “Just tell us your name and this will all be a faint memory.” The stranger didn’t move or speak. His eyes were still closed. His breathing became lighter. If it wasn’t for the sight of his chest rising and falling, I wouldn’t be able to tell if he was breathing or not. The old man became furious. He stood up from his chair and walked over and placed his lips right next to the stranger’s ear. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He was talking to fast and to soft for me to make out anything. But for the first time, an expression came upon the strangers face. His eyes flew open and his expression grew into anger and hatred. The old man stepped back with a smirk of accomplishment, knowing that he had gotten inside of the man’s head. The stranger lifted his head, and his light blue eyes reflected in the dim lighting. His nostrils flared and his teeth were clenched together. Even though he was tied tightly to the chair, he tried to lung forward at the old man, who was now standing a few feet in front of him. The other men in the black shirts lunged forward, catching the man before he could reach the oldest gentlemen. They pushed him back down so the chair was on the floor again, and started another round of horrible punches to his face and chest.
I pounded on the window, praying that they would turn their rage on me instead of him. “Stop it,” I yelled. “You’re killing him! Please stop! Take me instead!” What was I saying? I was sacrificing my own self for this stranger. “Leave him alone,” I continued to yell. I could feel the man’s pain. Every blow to his face and to his chest was a blow to my heart. I couldn’t breathe. It was like someone had taken the air right out of me. My heart broke with every sound of impact to his already broken body. All this pain and torture was being conflicted upon him just because he wouldn’t tell them his name? What kind of place was this? I was pleading with him inside my head. Please just tell them your name, I thought, please. I didn’t stop pounding on the glass, though my arms were in agony. I wanted the glass to break now. I wanted to run to his side and take the punches for him. I didn’t stop screaming, though none of my words were being heard. My head was spinning, my body shivering. My room was just as cold as his was now. Why was I doing this? Why was this stranger causing me to act this way? Why did I want to sacrifice myself for this man that I didn’t even know?
Cold wind began to blow in the dark room that was containing me. It was pulling me farther and farther away from the dirty window, from the stranger that had my heart in his hands. I tried so hard to fight the wind, to run back to the window. My arms were stretched to their limits. The light was fading fast. I couldn’t leave! I couldn’t leave Him. I had to save him! All my attempts to get back to the window were too far out of reach now. I was being pulled violently back to reality. The light continued to fade slowing as if to torture me. My body was weak. I couldn’t fight the wind any more. Then, the light from the window ceased, and I woke up in my bed screaming, my body aching, and my eyes filled with tears.
The morning came too late. Why couldn’t the sun have been peering through my window when I woke up from that horrible nightmare? When I was thrown back into reality in the middle of the night, the moon was still hovering over my window, its light shining through my curtains. I laid there the rest of the night thinking about the stranger that I was obsessed with. What had the old man said that made him so mad? Why didn’t he just tell them his name? Why did they need to know his name? Why was it so important? I recalled how his light blue eyes were raging with furry, how they glowed with anger in the bad lighting of the room. I only wish I knew what made him so mad. I wished I knew what he was dreaming about when his eyes were closed, where he was in his imagination that carried him so far away from the pain that he felt in that cold dark room. I did not sleep for the rest of the night. How could I? There were too many unanswered questions and thoughts running through my head.