A Dream Within A Dream

CHAPTER ONE

THE AWAKENING

August 16-17, 1943

            Joan awoke fitfully, breathing very hard.  Her heart was pounding; her head was on fire.  Gradually, and with some effort, she passed from her nightmare world to reality.  Often, when she made this journey, she would not know where she was—but at least this time, she knew—she was in her own bed.   As she looked around her room, the dream-state receded and the brightness of the overhead light hurt her eyes.  Her breathing was fast and deep.  She could not get enough oxygen. Each time she broke the nightmare’s bond it was like this.  Awakening would require fighting for air, struggling to reach the surface of some tormented lake—and through this subconscious battle, Joan had divined a way of escaping her dreams and returning to the real world as those dreams drifted toward experiences which she was incapable of maintaining. She learned that when she simply held her breath long enough, her survival instincts kicked in, forcing the nightmares to fade.

This time she found herself sitting bolt-upright in bed; and as she glanced down toward her hands, she was startled to see that she held a gun.  The shock was so great that her right hand flexed, involuntarily, and the gun fired.

Her senses were overwhelmed.  The sound of the .38 going off so close to her body caused excruciating pain in her ears and her head.  She coughed violently--the inhaled gunpowder constricting her breathing.

The slug had pierced the screen in the open window to the left of her bed.

When she turned to see where it had exited, the warm night air washed over her, causing her sweat-soaked pajamas to stick to her heaving breasts.   Glancing down toward the gun, lying in her lap, she noticed the blood stains on the sheets.

She jumped from the bed, thinking that, somehow, she had shot herself.  Frantically, she opened the closet door revealing a full-length mirror.  The bare wooden floor was reassuring to her feet, but she was shivering violently.  Slowly removing her pajamas, she let them fall in a wet heap at her feet and carefully scoured her body to see if she were injured.  Viewing her pale skin, auburn hair, full breasts and lithe body had, in the past year, brought her a growing sense of pleasure and she was beginning to feel an increased titillation in her nakedness—but not tonight—not when she was in the throes of one of her nightmares-- nightmares which always coincided with her menstrual period, an advent which began three years ago when she was twelve.  Relieved to find that she had no self-inflicted wound, she relaxed a little and found her robe.

Daddy’s going to be upset when he sees that bullet hole in the window screen, she thought.  Then, looking at her bed where the pistol lay, she said aloud, “And he’s really going to have a fit about his gun!” 

She recognized it as the one he always kept in his bedroom, under his pillow.

“What was I doing with Daddy’s gun?”   But she knew—or at least thought she did.  “I must have been sleepwalking again.”