Of Nightmares and Wildest Dreams

I once saw a nightmare, of a girl who dreamed beautifully, but she would wake alone. She could craft her dreams down the spiral staircase, using her piano, and while in them they were anything she'd like, as real as right now.

She eventually skipped waking entirely, playing as soon as the 12th chime struck to send her back to sleep and minimize her time in that empty place. A wayward note would always play though, like the memory of a dream. It was her hand, but she did not intend or recognize the combination while she was playing it, like a playful pair of feet playfully tap dancing across the melody she had so carefully constructed.

Each dream would return, different from the last, but there was one stranger who kept resurfacing. Each aspect of him became more familiar as the submelody she played grew in intensity. Then without warning the memory of him was gone, as were the notes. Dreams can be cruel sometimes. Try as she might, she could not replicate it herself.

Time passed like this, in desperate searching, until finally she gave up and returned to her cycle of dreams. Going through the motions, she always looked sad in beautiful places. She did not know he was out there though, and he needed those notes to whistle his own tune, in a world she would recognize, where she could stay.

The first chime rings out, it is midnight once more.  It is funny how the fulfilled promise of a new day always comes at the darkest hour.  I climb the stairs, footsteps echoing.  I know these steps by memory, despite the dream that engulfs me, constantly pulling at my mind and making me doubt so many aspects of the world around me.  I feel my heart beating in my chest, a solo drummer beating through the night, unsure if the reason for the increased pace is due to fear, excitement, increased activity, or some combination.  It pounds on boldly, drumming a steady beat as it has done through years, the first internal mark of a new day, unplagued by the doubts my mind has that anything is promised.  The second chime rings as I climb the third stair.  Chimes three through seven pass quickly as they often do, as I finish my ascent more quickly, counting each aspect so as not to lose track.  Such a simple task for others crushes me now, as I know the consequence of any misstep at such a critical hour.  How many times have I repeated these exact motions, and how many times have I failed to line up the rhythms resonating in this cold house?  I had lost track of that ages ago, preferring to treat each climb as the first.  There were no sounds outside the house, as far as I was concerned there was nothing there at all.  On the eighth chime I lift my hand from the banister and step over the rug I knew had bunched up at some point, and could easily trip me, cascading me into a loud and spectacular failure.  As the ninth chime rings I feel myself quickly yet silently making my way down the hall as stars and colored patterns fill my vision.  I never quite knew why this part was the way it was, but I knew I could not get trapped here, or a fate worse than failure would befall me.  It was so enticing, but I focused on my heartbeats- both that echoed in my chest during this seemingly brief yet endless trial were welcome reminders that I was alive, in a sense more fundamental than the dizzying lights could strip from my consciousness.  The tenth chime grips me.  I was at the door already; was I too soon?  I trust my instincts and open it; it creaks like it has some sort of question for the room.  This was different, and at this juncture, different was good, but I could hear her tossing in the bed and she reacts with a sharp inhale.  I freeze in my tracks, three heartbeats this time as I hold my breath, waiting for the penultimate chime, seeing her in the dark struggling with the terrors of the night, yet still asleep.  The 11th chime rings and her eyes open suddenly, two soft blue spotlights suddenly searching the room frantically.  She is not truly awake yet, but right on queue she screams in terror.  One final beat rings out, like a starter's pistol.  With two spry steps I am beside her bed, and my arm touches hers as the twelfth chime rings; time slows and she begins to phase.  I would not let go of her, not again.  I feel myself phase with her, as the piano begins playing downstairs.  "Shh, I've got you.  That song has ended.  Please let another begin."  She stops screaming, stares me right in the eye and, with a glint of recognition, begins to materialize fully once more, as the sound of the piano fades.  Her breathing slows, as I finally let myself breathe once more, my heart still racing in anticipation of what may yet happen.  Lightning strikes and thunder booms just outside the house, like a thirteenth chime shaking it to the core.  Something was broken, which was perfect in this recurring nightmare.  It had not ended this time, she had not gone, the impossible had been achieved. She leans in and holds onto me tightly, still trembling slightly.  "I'm so sorry.  It's over now." Two reunited, through the precise work of three-  thirteen chimes, twenty three steps, forty three heartbeats, fifty three keys played on the piano, seventy three feet covered, eighty three recovered eighty nine.  "What could possibly be missing now?"

The curse had been broken, but each day repeating. It was a curse they could live with, the sorrow swift fleeting. But he would not be satisfied with second best, so he set off to gather what he needed to ace the next test.

I'm back at the door
This is not my realm or time
Midnight approaches

I split into (((two)))
Now knowing what steps to take
And how to skip them

My shadow proceeds
I take a seat on the couch
And run up the stairs

I jump skipping steps
All the while daydreaming
Of what we might do

The numbers preserved
As I bound past the hallway
Eye the piano

I sit and lie down
And I fling open the door
As the sixth chime tolls

I rush to your side
Taking several seats at once
Before time dilates

Sorry to wake you
I thought we might have a chat
'Fore our rightful time