The Looping Dream

****

I had a nightmare. The details hardly matter—sometimes in dreams you fear things that would barely faze you in real life, or things you barely even glimpse. That’s how it was for me: I dreamt I was running through an unfamiliar city at night, fleeing something terrible, some tall, two-meter figure, humanoid, with long, ape-like arms, hairy grasping fingers, broad shoulders, and a vertically elongated head with no face—only two tiny black pinhead eyes on the smooth surface.

It moved toward me, slowly, mechanically, evenly. No sound, no overt threat, yet it filled me with terror. I ran, fast, faster than my pursuer, but each time I glanced back, the figure—whom I had dubbed “the executioner”—was still thirty to fifty meters behind me, meaning it could cover that distance in a couple of minutes.

At some point, I began thinking logically: *“This can’t exist. This is impossible. It must be a dream. I need to wake up.”* I focused: *“I want to wake up!”* — and I did. I was in my bed. Silence. Familiar objects: the phosphorescent cat statuette on the table provided comfort.

I exhaled with relief and spent a few minutes calming down. My pulse slowed, my breathing evened. But then… you know that feeling when someone approaches from behind? Like in childhood, senses sharp and quick. You’re standing there, and suddenly you feel the weight, the presence… You turn, and it’s a friend, looking disappointed: *“How did you know I was sneaking up? I was silent.”*

I glanced right. There it was in the room, watching me with tiny eyes on a blank face, reaching toward me. I jumped, knocking over my monitor: *“I woke up! I should’ve woken up!”* And then… I woke again.

Outside, grey winter dawn. Heavy smell of sweat in the room. My pillow wet, the sheet sticky. Gross. A hot shower and tea partially revived me. Breakfast options: a nearby shop or distant café. Shop won. Quick run, knew the stock by heart. I approached the counter: *“Sliced bread, full cream milk, half a kilo of Moscow sausage.”* No response.

Then she straightened, revealing… the same faceless elongated head with pinhead eyes.

I barely remember what I did. Screamed? Fled? Down the street, slipping on icy paths, tearing my hands and jacket on the grit. Up again, running until a strong hand grabbed me, shook me like a kitten. I screamed, fell back into… bed.

I rubbed my injured wrist, glanced around. Dream? Reality? My room was intact: phone by the pillow, computer on the desk, a plant in its pot. But it was the third consecutive awakening. Was it final? Could I test reality—self-harm, jumping, drinking? What if I died in the dream? Would I wake?

I rejected alcohol. I wanted something drinkable in large gulps. Found a can of Miller in the fridge, nearly emptied it in one go. Felt a slight haze, reality seemed stable. Crumpled the can, sat, reflecting. As known, one cannot fully study a system from inside it. How could I know if I’d truly woken, or if the executioner awaited?

Half an hour of experiments: slicing my thigh, biting my arm, cold shower—none woke me further. I had to accept the world’s reality and act normally: teeth brushing, breakfast, a quick morning routine. Early gray winter morning, I headed to the bus stop. Soon an ancient “PAZ” bus arrived. Narrow doors, exhaust venting inside, reminiscent of childhood.

I boarded, paid—no one took the money. Through the scratched glass, the familiar faceless head with pinhead eyes stared: *“Shall we ride?”*

I recoiled, pounded the doors—no effect. Emergency hatch? None. Window? Broke? No luck. Couldn’t escape, frozen in panic.

Then, a scraping sound outside. Approaching fast, hitting the bus. The vehicle shook violently. The rear window shattered; I jumped through it. In flight, I glimpsed a large, rusty metallic figure accelerating to ram us. Darkness.

Minutes later, I woke. No injuries on my thigh. Pale teeth marks on my arm. Starving, I went to the fridge. Nothing familiar. Just swirling darkness… and pinhead eyes. Paralyzed, gripping the handle, staring.

The fridge beeped impatiently. I closed the door. Waited. Opened it cautiously. Normal food—milk, beer, sausage, tomatoes—though the tomatoes were mangled like ketchup. Reached for the milk; the cap wouldn’t budge. Finally opened it… and felt a tap on my shoulder.

Screamed. Woke on the floor. Bottle in hand. Empty.

No fear this time, only hopelessness. Some kind of endless cycle. No matter what I did, I couldn’t fully wake. I knew I was dreaming—but how to prove reality? Even now, writing this, I wonder: am I awake? Or is this just someone else’s nightmare in which I am trapped?

I am terrified. I am part of a nightmare. Or worse… a nightmare dreamed me.