Man in My Nightmares

Ever since I was nine years old I've been haunted by these nightmares.

When they started I got them every night. These nightmares were never very clear; it's always been comparable to looking through warped, fogged glass but after so long I can make out most of what I'm seeing.

Most of them consist of myself being chased by what looks to be women crawling across the floor after me at impossible speeds, always with that horrid growl. Other times I would be hiding from these headless, tall, black figures.

Although they scared me I didn't think much of them and I didn't tell anyone because it simply didn't occur to me that there may be an underlying reason for them. But eventually my parents found out and when they discovered that I'd been having said nightmares for over a month and nothing they did seemed to help they sent me to therapy.

Once a week I would go in, I'd be asked if I was still having the dreams, I'd say 'yes', and then I'd be asked questions that to this day I can't imagine how it could be related to my nightmares. I think they were just getting desperate by the end, really.

When that didn't help I was sent to a sleep study clinic. After a series of tests, several of which I had to stay overnight for, they found nothing wrong that could cause them.

It was at this point that I began lying to my parents. I started telling them that the nightmares were fading and I was getting better. Now they've come to believe that it was just a phase that I grew out of.

After almost six months I wasn't having them every night anymore.

But every now and then, in my nightmare I'd see someone. I instantly recognized him through the warped fog of my dreams as a man who I can only recall seeing in a painting.

I remember this painting; it was at an art gallery my parents brought me to. It's called 'Forgotten Portrait', I first saw it and I felt as if it was something that was important, at first I thought it was because the artist hardly ever drew people, however I didn't feel that way to the other drawing of a human there.

I stared at it for a few moments wondering why I felt so strange looking at it before I was called away by my mother. This was important in some way, I just didn't know why.

The painting shows a young man with light grey hair in an old worn out coat, surrounded by blue rose petals, sitting slouched with his head lolling down.

At the time I though he was sleeping but now I realize that he must be dead. But why did he sometimes appear in my dreams?

I remember sometimes I thought of him as guardian, as whenever he was in my dreams he would never attack me like everything else seemed to. Sometimes he would even be protecting me from them. It seemed he was the only good thing in these nightmares.

I felt just a little bit safer with him.

But he wasn't always there. In fact it was rare. After a year and half I was still having nightmares at least once a week. I began to find myself praying that if I was going to have such things haunt me as I slept that I could at least see this man who kept me safe.

I began to visit the art gallery on my way from school. I would always tell my parents that I was going to study there. It wasn't really a lie, I did bring a text book with me to pass the time, it just wasn't the whole reason for going.

I just wanted to see him. After so long with nightmare, so long waking up in a cold sweat, so long dreading going to sleep, I just wanted to see the man who would sometimes help me get through the night.

After some time I was visiting four times a week. I never told my friends about this, I always told them that I 'had to study' when they wanted to see me during, what I started calling, 'gallery time'. They teasingly called me a bookworm for it but I didn't care much.

The people who worked there noticed. One woman there even put a waiting table in a place where I could see the portrait easily. I think they thought they were 'encouraging an artistic mind' by doing so.

One of the men who worked there asked me "Why do you love this painting so much?"

I could have told him about the nightmares, I could have said it simply 'spoke to me' more than the others, or that I thought I could learn more from this one. But before I could even think of these the words slipped from my lips.

"It's called 'Forgotten Portrait'. He doesn't deserve to be forgotten or left behind." I looked toward the other people wandering around, staring at other works. "Everyone looks this one over..." It was true, in my time there I'd only ever seen anyone look it over for 30 seconds at best then walk to the next one that got a full minute of attention by most.

The man who asked this simply looked at me for a second then the painting and walked away to whatever duty he was needed for.

The only person that knew the full truth was my first boyfriend. Looking back he wasn't a good person at all and I don't think it ever would have worked out between us. He was always more on the party side and he convinced me to sleep with him before I was really ready, but the reason I liked him so much at the time was because, at first at least, he didn't think the fact that I loved that portrait was weird and he even came with me to study a few times at the gallery.

In truth I think he was just trying to get in my pants, because when we got into an argument he yelled about how 'I spent more time with that damn picture than in the bedroom'.

About a year after we broke up, the art gallery caught fire. Everything on the first floor was destroyed and half of what was on the second floor was blackened by the smoke.

I heard from the woman who worked there that when the building was declared safe they were going to collect what they thought they could save and send it to where the new art gallery was going to be built in about a week.

At this point in time I was getting ready to go to college. I had been dreading being in a place where I couldn't see the portrait whenever I wanted, and then I was thrown into an utter panic when I heard the art gallery was burned down.

So I snuck in after dark.

All the art there that I had become so familiar with was gone, unrecognizable, or damaged. The stairs to the second level were half burned down as well and I barely managed to climb them without falling.

I remember thinking at the time that I must be insane for even thinking about doing this, and I probably was. But I kept going anyway. The second floor was almost as dark as the first. Several of the painting blackened beyond repair, but the few that weren't gave me hope. No one would question one portrait going missing after such a large fire.

Hardly anyone noticed it even while it was there.

I found 'Forgotten Portrait', with only one large black smear across the bottom right corner. Nothing that couldn't be fixed. I smiled. I can't remember being more happy than in that moment.

After some minutes of trying I managed to pry it off the wall, and I took it with me. I remember getting home and staring at it for hours. Carefully brushing off some of the dust as I gazed at the blue petals around him. I don't know why I felt such a strong feeling of guilt and loss.

I cried not knowing why. I held the portrait close to me, hoping, wishing and praying for something.

And I still don't know what.

To this day I don't know why I have still have those nightmares, or why I feel such strong emotions when I look at this painting, or why the man is in my dreams.

It's been 11 years since then.

Last night I had another nightmare. I was walking down a long, blue hallway with that man at my side. I could smell cigarette smoke coming from him as he put his hand on my shoulder… I saw blue rose petals on the ground. Fear shot through my body as I looked down at them. A sound drifted through the air. "He loves me... He loves me not…"

Pure terror filled my mind and suddenly the only thing I could see was him sitting slumped against the wall, head lolling down.

All I could think was 'He's sleeping... He's just sleeping... He's fine' as I shook his shoulders slightly. "Wake up... Please wake up... You're not dead! Get up!" I slapped him. There wasn't even a flinch. I held onto him, clinging to what warmth was still in his body. "Garry..."

I woke up this morning sobbing uncontrollably.

I still don't understand.