i don;t scream, i don;t cry

Every night, it’s the same dream. For as long as I can remember, it is always exactly the same one. A dark night, a brightly lit city street, the stars hidden behind the light and air pollution; a busy road, full of cars zooming in both directions, headlights on, beaming light in front of them; there are a few people, yet the pavement is not particularly crowded - late night clubbers, friends laughing and joking loudly above the roar of the traffic, a couple walking together, hand in hand, and a handful of rowdy teens, drunk and probably high, staggering home and yelling abuse at the other people around them. I never see their faces, so I draw my assumptions from their body language and behaviour. The temperature is cool, as if it is the end of a warm day, and the evening brought with it a cold breeze, which I sometimes feel on my skin, through the faded black jacket, thin cotton t-shirt and black jeans I am wearing in the dream, the rush of air from the traffic whipping the strands of my dark red hair around my face. I am walking along the chewing gum encrusted pavement, humming a tune that is blurred like the faces. And then I am pushed, suddenly, violently, making me stumble sideways, into the road, into the path of an oncoming car, a shiny white Ford Focus. It hits me at forty miles an hour, and I am thrown up on the bonnet then sent flying. There is a screeching and squealing of brakes, as the driver frantically tries to stop, horrified at what has happened, as I land with a bone jarring thud, half on the pavement, half on the road. I taste blood in my mouth, metallic and sickening, and pain is shooting though every inch of my body, or so it seems. I fight for conscience, and people around me are screaming, yelling, calling an ambulance; but it is too late. I am dying, quickly, losing too much blood, and there is nothing that anyone can do.
The same dream, for sixteen years – sometimes is it softer, more blurred than usual, and I feel less, see less, and maybe wake up before the car hits me. Sometimes, it is so vivid that it is almost life like, where I can feel the pain, taste the blood, hear their voices, and those are the nights when I wake up screaming.
This morning, I wake up around six, cold sweat glistening on my forehead, and as I do every morning, I take a moment to remind myself that it was a dream - just a dream. It is too late to go back to sleep, so with heavy, tired eyes I heave myself out of bed. The carpet beneath my feet is soft and familiar, and I cross to the full-length mirror on my wall to see how bad I look. The face staring back at me could belong to a corpse. Lank, messed up crimson hair, dark, bruise like shadows under my hazel eyes, smudged traces of eyeliner still visible, blended with tears. My dark pyjamas do nothing to help my complexion; they contrast with my skin and make me look unnaturally pale. Freakish. A small, sad laugh escapes my lips. Maybe I can see why people usually look at me funny.
I reach out to my CD player and turn it on, switching it to a low volume so that I don’t wake up anyone else. It’s a Saturday, and at this time, almost everyone else my age is asleep, unlikely to get up before ten, at least. After my dream, however, sleep is nearly impossible, as I know that any sate of unconsciousness brings my nightmare back to me. The disc in the player is Iron Maiden, and I sing along softly as I look for something to wear. The floor of my bedroom is cluttered with books, magazines, various items of clothing, drawings and CDs; it takes me a while to find my favourite pair of battered black jeans and a grey vest top to wear. I drag a hairbrush half-heartedly through my hair, but realise quickly that I am going to need to wash it, as it is hopelessly tangled. I open my bedroom door, and walk quietly downstairs, my bare feet only causing the smallest amount of noise on the creaky wooden stairs. The water in the shower is soothing, relaxing for my tense muscles. I stand for a moment, just letting the hot water run across my shoulders and down my back to my feet, then grab a bottle of shampoo and lather it though my hair. Rinsing this out, I squeeze a blob on conditioner onto my hand and run it through my hair, leaving it for a moment then carefully combing out the tangles, until my hair is smooth and soft again. I stay in the shower a moment longer, then turn off the water and steps out. The cold air is a big contrast to the warm shower, so I grab a towel and dry myself quickly, pull on my clothes and make my way back up to my room. Pushing the door open again, I realise that I have left the music on. Over by my mirror, I wipe away the last traces of eyeliner and re-apply it, rimming my eyes with thick black lines. My hair falls damply around my face, and there is a definite change in my appearance now. I’ve gained back some colour and my overall look is a lot neater, and this is good enough for me. This time remembering to turn off the music, I walk out of my bedroom.

It is now five thirty pm. I have spent much of the day doing homework, something that I always had a huge pile of to do these days. My right hand was aches from sketching for hours, and now my fingers dance across the keyboard as I type up my history essay. Glancing at the time, I realise that I haven’t eaten anything other than a slightly burnt piece of toast all day. I save the essay and wander into the kitchen. Someone has recently made coffee, and the kitchen is filled with its aroma. I check the kettle, and there is still enough to make another cup. I flick the switch on the side to boil the water again, and fetch the jar of coffee, the milk, sugar and a teaspoon to make it with while I wait for it to boil. There is an open pack of chocolate digestives in the drawer, and I swipe a couple as the water reaches the right temperature. I scoop some coffee granules into my favourite mug, a black one that I had painted amber flames up the side of, pick up the heavy kettle and pour the water. Chucking in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and a little milk, I stir the drink absent mindedly, staring out of the window at the moody grey sky. It rained earlier, and a light drizzle is still falling, enough to keep most people indoors. I pick up the mug, letting the heat from it warm my hands, and threw the metal teaspoon into the sink. I carefully make my way back upstairs, but I stumble on one of the steps and swear as some of the coffee spills out of the mug and over my top. The brownish stain spreads quickly over my grey vest, and disgruntled, I put down my coffee and the biscuits at the top of the stairs and go into my bedroom to change. I pull of the now sodden vest and fling it in the general direction of the wash basket on the landing. It misses, and I hastily pull on an old navy blue t-shirt, the kind of cheap thing that you just know is going to get holes in it quickly, and go over to pick up the vest and drop it into the basket.
When I get back to the computer, I notice that a MSN conversation is flashing at me from the bottom of the screen. I click on it, and it is from one of my friends, asking if I want go out to see a movie later with her and a couple of others. I type my reply, yes, into the box and send it.
I munch on the slightly sodden biscuits and drink what’s left of my rapidly cooling coffee as I finish my essay. My friend, Emilie, wants to meet up at the cinema at quarter past nine this evening. That means that I’ve still got a couple of hours to kill before I need to be there, so I turn off the computer and shuffle towards my bedroom yet again. Reading sounds good right now, and I pick up my battered copy of Lord Of The Rings from the floor where I had thrown it the night before. Sinking onto my bed I flick through the pages until I find where I was up to, and I begin to read. But the room is warm, and I am still tired. My eyelids begin to flicker, and I find myself falling asleep.

It takes me a moment when, at twenty to nine, I wake up and realise that I did not dream. It goes against everything I know – sleep has always meant that dream for me, no exceptions, no matter when or where I have drifted into unconsciousness – and my mind is rejecting it, while at the same time, knowing that it is true. However, I have no time to think about it any more, as I will be late to meet Emilie if I don’t hurry up. I was going to get changed into something a little more interesting, but there is no time now. I find a pair of grey socks, my old trainers and my jacket and pull them on quickly, grabbing a ten-pound note and yelling goodbye to my family as I run out of the door.
The bus is already at the bus stop, and I run as fast as can down the pavement to try to catch it before it pulls away. My trainers splash though the small puddles created by the rain, the water splattering my jeans, and I can feel its coldness soaking though to my legs. Still, I do not stop running and I reach the bus just in time, stumbling up the steps and managing to tell the driver where I want to go as I attempt to catch my breath. I hand over my money and he gives me my ticket and the change, looking bored. I am nothing new to him - just another teenager, face forgotten almost the moment that he’s seen it.
I swing into a seat near the back of the almost empty bus as it jerks into motion. Closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the scratchy material covering the seats I take deep breaths, slowly restoring my breathing rate to normal. The money I have left over from buying the bus ticket should pay for my cinema ticket.
As the bus travels towards the city centre, I rest my head against the rain-streaked window and look out at the world. Cars of different colours go past, or I pass them while they wait at the traffic lights in a different lane. A few people scuttle along the soaked pavements, hoods up to shield them from the rain. Shop fronts, dirty from the pollution of the roads and splattered with the rain that has saturated the scene, advertise their goods in bold letters, promoting half price sales and “bargain” prices. A car dealership, with rows of shiny new vehicles parked outside, a grocer, with tired looking green and white striped awning suspended over the entrance, a trendy clothing store with windows full of mannequins wearing the latest fashions, a hardware store, a handful of restaurants, a large branch of B&Q, with a car park that is large but not even a quarter full, a mobile burger van parked in the middle of it, not getting many customers in this weather. These are some of the sights that I see as the bus continues towards it’s destination.
Eventually, it reaches my stop, so I stand up and get off, mumbling a quick “thank you” to the driver, who just grunts in return, impatient to reach the bus terminal do that he can finish his job and go home. The cinema is a few minutes walk away, but on the same stretch of road as the bus stop.
“Ruby! You’re late!” Emilie scolds as I spot her by the entrance to the cinema and jog over. The colour of her mahogany hair and green dress is soaked up and lost under the artificial orange glow of the streetlight. I apologise to her, and the two others. Sam, a tall, dark haired skater with ripped jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt, and Jason, whose messed up hair and crumpled blue shirt and navy jeans always give the impression that he’s just rolled out of bed. He usually has – unlike me; he has no reason to fear sleep and would happily sleep all day if he could.
We wander over to the cinema and buy our tickets and a large bucket of toffee popcorn to share. Giving our tickets to the man at the door, he points us towards screen six. There are still a few minutes before the film starts, so we are forced to sit through several adverts and the inevitable crappy trailers for Lame American Movie #67004, Lame American Movie #67005 and Lame American Movie #67006. The film we choose is a comedy; I do not find it amusing. It seems to follow the same generic plot of almost any other “hilarious” film made in the last five years. I am bored within five minutes of the movie, and my attention wanders around the cinema while I grab a handful of popcorn. It seems too sweet, too sticky, and I have to chew thoroughly to be able to swallow it. Even then, some of it stays stuck to my teeth, irritating me further. I give up trying to dislodge it with my tongue, and glance around me, the darkened cinema lit only by the screen. Everyone else seems to be engrossed in the movie, and I shift around in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I am sat in between Emilie and Jason, and both are hogging the armrests on either side of my. Folding my arms across my chest, I close my eyes again, remembering that afternoon, and contemplating the impossible – for me, at least. Sleep without that dream just never happened. It was the most outstanding childhood memory, waking up screaming because of it, in my old yellow bedroom. I had changed since then, my family had moved house, I’d grown up and yet the dream was always the same. Always. And it was always there. I’d tried medication – pills, anti-depressants, tablets, herbal remedies, in fact pretty much everything that anyone could think of. Nothing worked.
So why had I not had it this afternoon?
I couldn’t answer that, despite the fact that I’d spent the remainder of the movie thinking it over.
Finally, the end credits rolled up the screen, and the house lights come on again. Stretching and chatting about the movie, which I could not remember a minute of; my friends and I exit the cinema. Outside, the sky seems inky black, and although the rain had stopped, the absence of sun means that the temperature had dropped considerably. I shivered as I say good-bye to Emilie and Jason, who are going to a different bus stop to me, and then Sam, who lives nearby anyway and so does not have to catch a bus. I am left alone to walk back to my bus stop. The time is twenty to eleven, so I have plenty of time to wander up the road to the bus stop. It is late, but I am not tired. I slept better in my afternoon nap than I probably had any other night in my life. Again, the absence of dream, and I wondered idly if I would dream it again tonight, or if it’s disappearance was permanent. I hoped that it was. Every time that I had made a wish in my life, whether cutting a birthday cake, blowing out candles or seeing the first star in the sky, it had always been that I could sleep without dreaming.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realise until it was too late. For years, I had walked down this road, and never realised the similarities. I had noticed the heavy traffic, but not made any connections. The colourless sky, too, had registered in my mind as nothing other than that: a dark sky. Even the people, who I have seen thousands of times before, don’t trigger anything in my mind, until the moment that someone crashes into me, knocking me into the road. I know what happens next, and sure enough, the white car hits me, sends me flying.
It is ironic that while thinking about my lack of dream, the dream itself had played out perfectly, exactly. If I had not been thinking about it, I might have prevented it form happening – a self-fulfilling prophecy, in a way.
But this is not like my dream. The people’s faces are not blurred, the sounds are not muted, and no pain that I could ever imagine could even come close to what I am feeling now. Blood dribbles out of my mouth where I have bitten my tongue, and from the gash in my head where I hit the edge of the pavement. Agony tears at my body, searing through every nerve, as the pool of blood around me spreads.
And I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I don’t do anything, and as people do everything they can to save me, I do nothing. In my dream, I always die, and I am dying now. Yet I am not scared. I want to die. Dying means that the dreams will stop. It is an escape from everything. Death is coming and it is the only state of unconsciousness where I know that I will never dream again.
I close my eyes for the last time, and smile.