That brings us to the present. I've been having nightmares. They've plagued me since that night. Nightmares of blood and raw flesh. Nightmares where I die.
I know it's Jack, for sure. It's Jack who stalks me and hurts me in the dreamscape. It's Jack who is always in the peripheral of my mind, never gone, always there... a silhouette in my vision, a shadow in my heart...
Last night I had a bad one. I woke up in the middle of a dreamless sleep and couldn't move. My chest, my throat, my limbs; they were paralyzed. I could only hopelessly dart my eyes around the darkness of my bedroom. Shapes of everyday household objects took on ominous, disturbing shapes that twitched. I knew something was lurking just outside my line of vision. I could feel it.
His shadow rippled into view. I wanted to scream. He held out a clawed hand, dug into my chest, and I found I could scream.
I fully awoke and switched on the lights. There was nobody there. I was only covered in perspiration, not blood. I went to the bathroom and threw up. I didn't sleep the rest of that night.
I know one thing for sure: this will never end. I've angered a God through an act of blasphemy; the God of dreams. Now I suffer divine torture. Even now, as I write this down, I sense that thing which looks like Jack Estrada. It follows me, throughout halls and throughout rooms, through walls and through floors and ceilings. It stands in each window and corner, outside my vision and beyond my vision. It finds me wherever I may go, and I am very, very afraid to fall asleep.It all started on a miserably cold Christmas in a bar in Manhattan. I remember it was dark and warm inside, with the smell of wood and liquor, and the sound of idle conversations at other tables and holiday music.
I was sitting on a stool by myself, occasionally taking a swig of the green bottle in my hands. I felt a light tap on my shoulder and looked up to see a shadowed face gazing back.
"You don't recognize your old friend, Nathan?" The shadows voice was raspy and low; it was the voice of a man who had aged horribly.
"Do I know you?" I asked.
The shadow took a seat on the stool next to mine. The light revealed a pale, skinny face with glazed eyes, matching his gravelly voice perfectly. He was dressed in shabby clothes befitting that of a hobo, and smelled of urban decay. Yet, I sensed recognition in those glassy eyes of his.
"Of course." I remember his smile being unsettling. "It's Jack--from college, remember?"
It was as if a button had been switched on in my mind. Though it was difficult to tell at a first glance, the resemblance was there. The lanky, tattered man before me was indeed the Jack Estrada I'd known in a different lifetime.
He called the bartender over for a drink and took a gluttonous gulp of the stuff. I do not remember what it was he drank, though I do remember his hacking and coughing afterwards, as well as him swallowing his phlegm.
"It's been a while, huh?" He sniffled.
"I suppose so."
The rest of our small talk was similar in style. He would make a desperate attempt at conversation, under the facade of an old friend wanting to catch up, and I would shut it down as quickly and discretely as I could. He seemed to be under the delusion that we'd been inseparable companions from college, which couldn't be any further from the truth. Though we'd been associates with some social interaction, that was as far as it ever got. As a matter of fact, I can't remember him having had any friends.
There was one person, though... I believe it would be best to return to this subject at a later time.
It was when I was just about to leave that he brought it up. "Wait," he said, motioning for me to sit back down. "There's something I've been... contemplating about."
I squinted at him. "That being?"
"A story."
Regrettably, my interest had been piqued. Sitting on the barstool, I glanced at him. I was hesitant. "This better be good."
He surveyed the clutter of patrons around us. None seemed too interested in us, instead focusing on their drinks or games of cards and dice. He then gave me a conspiratorial look, taking another sip of his drink. "Now, where to start?"
"Life, as you might've surmised by my appearance, didn't treat me too well after graduation. Nothing befits the American Dream more than a starving artist, eh?"
"There was a... multitude of problems on my hands, none of which I am proud to admit. My enslavement to liquor, which I've yet to conquer, the onset of artists block, bills, and some personal issues with family."
"I was in a dark place for a long time, and things only got worse and worse for me, until it all culminated into a... well, outburst. Which, I believe, is where this story truly begins."
"It was summer. I'd gotten up early to try and work on the canvas, which, like any other day, I'd been struggling with. After a half-hour had been wasted, I decided what I needed was some fresh air and a good walk. So I dressed a bit more comfortably for the weather, and headed towards somewhere. It didn't matter to me where I went, so as long as I was outside."
"Though it was beautiful outside, with hives of green leaves against the azure sky, children lost in their odd games on the sidewalks, and joggers shining in the sunlight, there was no inspiration to be had. No moment of eureka, nothing. My trip had been in vain. Despite it being day, my mind saw a depressing gloom across everything."
"I headed back home. It was in the lobby of my apartment complex where I met that man."
He scowled.
"He was a sleaze who knew nothing of what he spoke. Apparently he had seen my art somewhere else before, and thought not too kindly of it. You can guess how it went from there. He harassed me, I retaliated. Then our squabble went from being verbal to physical. Before things got too out of hand, though, the landlord had appeared and drew our quarrel to a close."
"The next thing I knew, I was being evicted." He paused here and took a sip. For some reason I had the impression that Jack was not telling the whole truth regarding his altercation with the other man.
"I only had a few things to take with me. My art supplies, my clothing, some of my books... there was nowhere left for me to go. I couldn't even go to my parents house, as, well, that's an entirely different thing altogether."
I wondered if Jack and his parents had a similar disagreement. I put the bottle to my lips and realized it was empty. Warm glass kissed my lips. "So what happened?"
"Doctor Herbert happened."
You may have remembered my mentioning of a possible friend of Jacks. Doctor Herbert, to my recollection, was a rather eccentric fellow who taught at our college. His unorthodox style of teaching was both revered and detested. Though I'd never attended any of his classes, I heard much of him through my peers, including some unsavory rumors concerning his occupation outside of teaching.
Jack Estrada was an admirer and avid follower of Dr. Herbert, the latter who had a father-like connection with Jack. The two shared similar interests in surrealism, art, poetry, and so on. I especially remember Jack being the top-performing student of the doctors class.
