Morpheus's Embrace

I work as a psychologist in a mediocre city. There aren't many people there, but there are plenty of them, too, each with their own problems, their own unresolved issues. Many of them turn to me for help, telling their stories, opening up their souls. That's how he came to me. Revealing his name would be ethically wrong.

He first came to me on a fine summer day. He was an emaciated man of about fifty, with gray hair, a fine mesh of wrinkles, and heavy bags under his eyes. Settling into a comfortable leather chair, he looked at me for a long time, and then began his story:

"Please, listen to me. I know you can't help me, but you can write about this, which is quite a lot." Since childhood, I've been plagued by nightmares. My parents took me to psychiatrists, healers, fortune tellers—nothing helped. I continued to see them, live their lives, and... die their deaths. Every night, as I fell asleep, I lived the lives of people unknown to me. I don't know how to explain it, but I wasn't a bystander. I was them, and they were me. And every night I died. Doctor, I've died a thousand different deaths. It's very unpleasant. Once, when I was fifteen, I dreamed of my neighbor. No, I WAS my neighbor. I was mowing the lawn near my country house when a terrible pain in my chest caused me to collapse in convulsions. My vision went black, and I woke up. The next day, I learned that my neighbor had died of a heart attack. And so it was, every night. First, I looked for these people—they were all dead. All of them. I dream—and the person dies. Within a week at the latest. I can't take this anymore, Doctor,” he looked at me with pleading eyes.

“I've lived a thousand lives,” he smiled bitterly. “But today is special. I dreamed of myself.” Today I'll be hit by a car. A truck. On the corner, behind your office. Write about it, Doctor. Goodbye,” he said as he left the office.

I admit, I've heard more incredible stories in my practice. However, this time, something struck me.

I rushed out of the office, dropping my car keys and tripping over the glass doors. As I ran out into the street, I saw him. He was walking toward the crosswalk.

“Wait! Wait!” I cried.

He turned around, his mouth slightly open, about to say something, when a van came around the corner, knocked him down, and dragged him across the asphalt, leaving a bright red trail behind.

I don't know if it was an accident, or if everything was truly predetermined, as he told me. This man asked me to write about it, and I am writing. I mourn the man I saw once in my life, like a best friend. I don't know if that's true... but I saw something in his eyes. Something other than the despair of a hunted animal. I think it was pity. Maybe I was in one of his dreams, too?