I had a dream of a tall king looming, towering over me while I slept, whispering sweet nothings into my ear that gave me vividly horrifying nightmares. The Nightmare King would whisper silently, delicately all the things that terrified me in my waking hours. His voice would gingerly remind me of all my fears and phobias and how likely were they to happen when I was wide awake. Therefore, according to him, I should never leave, remain in the dream state in the dark day, the brightest night forever. My skin would break into goosebumps every time he’d talk and I would break into a cold sweat, shivers traveling up and down my body like a bolt of electricity. However, I could not move, I could not speak. The Nightmare King would laugh gracefully, his long, slender and pale fingers shaking when I tried to wordlessly oppose his suggestions. The King would softly stroke my hair, his freezing fingertips leaving ice in their wake. He would say he’d return another time, another day, another dream when I would least expect him. He always kept his promises. I could never sleep normally again.
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There was also a man who walked on the Moon. Or so I thought. I just named him that after noticing his presence when the moon was full and moonlight filled my small room with bleak, weak white light. I would hear him late at night walking on my rooftop, the snow squeaking above me and under his shoes. I would always hold my breath when he appeared, as if he could hear me breathing below. The man of the Moon would drag his feet slowly, shuffle as he walked on my roof. I knew nothing about what he was, what he was searching for and why he chose my roof of all places. But I heard him every time he would appear. Pacing the perimeter of the rooftop, back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes he would stop, probably contemplate something, it seemed that I could even hear him think but soon thereafter he would go back to shuffling on my rooftop. He had some sort of agenda, I was sure of it, I just didn’t know what it was. Until I did.
