Gregarious Dreams

Hello, and today we have something quite disturbing. The title is a bit of a pun in of itself since the main character is named Greg, and having “dreams” is usually associated with positive aspects. Though that is entirely up to the reader. Greg can be seen as having a nice embrace into the realm of sleep, or it could be a much deeper issue with his mind. A mental issue, in other words. A mental issue, and coping. That was the main theme I tried to convey, how one can develop a mental issue, or use a mental issue to help cope with a stressful event. Having things like Schizophrenia is scary, though having any mental issue is scary. I  wanted to grasp a sense of what it might have to have delusions, and bring some perspective to that topic.  Kind of drags you into the sense of life itself, I mean, whatever we want to be real, will be real as long as our brains play it out in our heads. Reality and fiction has a thin line, and the one to cross it is us. Here you go, “Gregarious Dreams”.

It’s been a few months since the accident. Greg wakes up, and fixes himself a cup of black coffee like he always does. He sets the cup on the table, and then waits ten minutes. Then, the sound of the bathroom door upstairs’ plays in Greg’s ears, and he yells, “Morning!” Silence resides the house, but Greg plays a response, “Morning!” It was the voice of a middle-aged man, scruff and bearded, but, little to none above the eyes. Greg grabs another cup, and pours the black cascading liquid, the sound of the cup filling resounds with Greg and gives him a satisfying smile. He then sets out to find two plates, and places them on the table, resounding a clank throughout the kitchen. He grabs two slices of bread and slots them into the toaster, pressing down the button as he does. Then, another sound, the sound of shuffling feet above plays in Greg’s ears. He recognizes this as scuttling, and the image of a short blonde girl prancing about with her small feet fills the void upstairs. The sound of childish laughter then plays within Greg’s ears, and he smiles as he reaches over to grab a smaller plate. The toast pops up from the toaster, and with his hands, Greg grabs each slice and places them neatly on the two larger plates. He then puts another piece in, and pulls out a pan. Greg reaches over to the refrigerator, and pulls out two eggs, and cracks them onto the pan as he turns it on. The sizzle and churning of the eggs resound within Greg, giving him another satisfying smile. As the eggs finish, he places one on each large plate, and pulls out the toast from the toaster to place on the smaller plate. He then spreads jam on the smaller toast with a silver spreading knife, and butter on the two other pieces of toast with a spreading knife. Greg then pours orange juice from the carton on the table to the small cup next to the jam toast.

“Greg!” Greg perks up from his seat, and walks out of the kitchen towards the second floor stairs. He looks up at nothingness, but a short blonde girl plays in his eyes.

“Rose!” Greg calls out into the woodworks, “What’s wrong?” Rose furrows her brows and frowns at Greg. She pouts, and holds her arms behind her, then she sticks out her tongue and audibly queues her disdain.  The accident was on the highway, no signs of intoxication. Rose then laughs and skips her way down the stairs and past Greg, leaving him dumbfounded by her playful disposition.

“What’s the matter?” The voice from before drags Greg to turn his head back towards the stairs. The image of a middle-aged man plays in Greg’s eyes; the one with scruff and beard.

“Just some childish bantering. You know Rose,” Greg says, seeming to reply to nothingness.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the middle-aged man says as he walks down the stairs slowly. Greg does not play the sounds of the steps.

“You’re glad I’m here? What do you mean?” Greg asks.

“Glad you’re taking care of Rose, and taking care of yourself. All I could ever ask for my child, is that he knows himself more than he knows me.”

“Why the sudden existentialism?”

“Just had a hunch.”

“Early in the morning?” Greg turns his head as his father walks behind him and into the kitchen,  “Something like that.” Greg smiles and walks back into the kitchen as well. He sees Rose with wide eyes and a voracious smile. Greg then turns towards his father, who is also eating away at his toast, reading the newspaper that Greg had left for him on the table. Greg then sits down, and eats his toast. Complete silence befalls him. Just egregious youth.

“Hey Greg!” Rose calls out to Greg, whom looks up at her and smiles. Greg lowers his toast, which comes into contact with the plate and resounds a satisfying thump to Greg.

“What’s up Rose?”

“Want to know something about butterflies?”

“Butterflies? Sure.”

“They flock towards the dead.” Greg blinks, and then notices the plate of bread in front of Rose hadn’t been touched, and the plate of bread in front of his father hadn’t been touched. Greg slams his hands on the wooden table, trying his best not to spill the carton of milk and listens to the resounding slam as it violently rings in his ears.

“And butterflies also eat the corpses!” Rose was unchanging to what Greg had just done, and continues shifting her toast without friction of the plate.

“They also eat a whole bunch of yucky things!” Rose sticks her tongue out and then giggles. Greg slams the table again, resounding a violent ring in his ears.

“Hey! Did you hear about the game tonight?” Greg’s father says as he picks up the toast and brings it to his mouth. The toast visibly shrinks in his father’s hands, but as he lays the toast down, Greg blinks. The toast is now whole again. A father, a daughter, and a son was affected by the car accident, the two in the other vehicle remained completely unharmed.

“Shut up!” Greg yells at his father, at seemingly the air, and his father remains phlegmatic as he reads the newspaper, flipping the pages and playing the sound of reading to Greg.

“It’s going to be exciting Greg!” Greg gets up, and then reaches over to grab the newspaper from his father. Just as his eyes had visibly connected his hands to the newspaper that was being held by his father, he blinked. The accident was tragic, only the son had lived.

“Hey Greg! Greg!” Greg pulls himself back into the kitchen, where Rose jumps frantically in her seat trying to get his attention.

“Look at this!” Rose pulls her arm out, which is covered in butterflies. The flesh of her arm melts away as the butterflies nib away at her skin, causing blood to drip onto the table. Greg’s eyes widen and he screams. Then, he blinks.

The table was clear. Two untouched plates with toast and eggs, and one smaller plate with jam toast. Greg goes to the refrigerator, and pulls out the carton of milk, and places it on the table. Greg blinks. The table is filled with Rose, and his father, and he grabs the glass of milk near his plate and splashes it across the table. Greg blinks, and looks at the carton of milk. He takes it, and pours it into the sink, with the sound of splashing resounding in Greg’s ears. He sighs, and then turns towards the kitchen table. He reaches over to his toast, and grabs it, then takes a bite, smiling at the resounding sound of food being eaten. He blinks. Rose is covered in butterflies, and so is his father. Greg blinks, then, closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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