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My eyes are glued to the ceiling. It's something I've seen a lot more lately. They're trying to fight my will to keep them open. It's a losing battle.

A few weeks ago I started having weird dreams, more lucid than I have ever had. But there was something off about them, something I couldn't figure out.

I have had weird dreams before, but nothing this intense. Every day I was waking up in a cold sweat, trying to grasp to the memories of what I had just went through, though they slip away before I can hang on.

My body hates me, I can't deprive it of sleep forever. I have to do something about this. I've tried seeing a shrink, but that yielded next to no results. She tried to tell me that my dreams were some kind of repressed memories.

I called bullshit. I didn't even have a lot of details about my dreams. Actually, I had none. Just that I always woke up afraid. I think she just wanted to keep me in there as long as possible to get as much money out of me as she could.

None of this matters anyway. As much as I try to fight it, I can feel myself slipping away; the fear building inside me. Every time I blink, my eyes are staying closed longer and longer. The last thing I remember is my heart beating against my chest.

#

My fear slowly transitions to confusion as I open my eyes after what seems like only a really long blink. This is the kind of thing I've been trying to avoid. I'm sitting on a couch in what appears to be the evening. I can see the sun setting out of a window. It seems so real, but it can't be. I can feel a draft coming from the door; I can something fowl. This is unbelievable.

There's not much here. A television that looks like it's never used, or at least hasn't in some time. There are papers stacked everywhere. I try to stand up, but it seems like I am dreaming, because I can't move.

My eyes are set on something that looks like photographs on the wall above the TV, but I can't seem to make them out, my eyes are so blurry. I can feel my left hand holding something, the fingers on my right hand nervously tapping against my leg.

Against my own will, I stand up and walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. It seems like my vision is coming onto focus, I can see what's inside. Not much. There are some hot dogs and a lot of beer, which I seem to be grabbing for. I take a drink of the beer I'm apparently already holding, finishing it off and toss it to the floor.

This entire place is a mess. There is trash everywhere, bottles and take-out food containers all over the place. I start to walk back to the couch, kicking trash out of my way as I go, mumbling something I can't understand.

In a startling thump I sit back down on the couch and stare back at the wall. I can see them now. Pictures of people taped all over it. Browsing through them--I see one that stands out among the crowd--me.

#

I wake up out of breath, gasping at what I just saw. My wife, startled, wakes up as well and asks me what's wrong. I open my mouth to tell her, but I can't remember. I just look at her wide-eyed, my mouth gaping open. It was right there; something important. For the life of me I can't recall it. It was so real, and gone in an instant.

With nothing to say to her, I just tell her it was nothing. She seems to have already lost interest. She's already rolled on to her side and fallen back to sleep. This isn't the first time I've woken her up in the middle of the night. She used to worry, pleading I see someone about it.

After that didn't work, she eventually just accepted it. At least I think she did. For all I know she's just waiting for the perfect time to leave and take the kids. Who would want to stay with someone who fears sleep; who wakes up gasping and afraid to sleep?

I lay restless. Why does this keep happening and why can I not remember? I wish I knew. So many things running through my head, but none of them the memories of what I have seen. The only thing that lingers is the fear. The fear of what is happening.

After about an hour of my mind racing, not being able to sleep, I go downstairs. I need to get my mind off this. I turn on the TV and try to find something to watch. This late at night it's mostly just infomercials and old movies.

The cat seems as restless as I do, wondering the house for no particular reason, pouncing on things that seem of interest. If only I were as carefree as her.

I can't avoid sleeping forever, and this TV definitely isn't helping me. My eyelids are getting heavy, I can feel myself twitching as my body fights me. I can do this. It's not too hard, I'll get some coffee in a minute, that will help me. This couch is so comfortable. I'll get the coffee in a few minutes.

It was only a moment that sleep took hold. It was just enough for me to see those pictures. Plain as day this time. They all looked like they were taken from far away, all focused directly on the people's faces. Some of my face. I surely don't remember any of these being taken. By the looks of them--I'm not supposed to.

#

Weeks go by, and it's happening more frequently. I think it's getting better. By better I mean I can hang on to the pieces now. Pictures of me, of them; I still don't know why, but it's a start. I also remember a kitchen. Not much of it, but stacks of papers sitting on the table. I can fight this.

It's not much to go on, but I'll take anything over nothing. My heart still races every time I wake up. My wife doesn't wake up as often. She's either still holding off on leaving, or used to it. I'm not, It's like a living nightmare. I don't know how much longer I can stand it. I don't know how much longer she'll endure it.

#

After seeing those pictures, I've been trying to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious, or any of the people who hang next to me. It's making me paranoid. There's no way they could be real. I need to realize they are only dreams; some figments of my imagination taunting me when I sleep. Or are they trying to tell me something?

Maybe my brain knows something I don't, something I've seen but didn't really notice. Maybe those people are just random people. People by brain have recorded and just placed in those pictures.

I think I should try to go back to that psychiatrist now that I have more to go on. Maybe she can figure this mess out better than I can.

#

I couldn't get an early appointment like I had wanted. A week it took her to fit me. Shows how much she cares for her patients. The plus side is I've seen more of my dreams, more of that house. I could almost draw a map of the place. If I did though it might be too real, I couldn't fathom looking at the place while I'm awake.

I show up about a half hour before I'm scheduled, hoping her previous appointment would have either not shown up, or left early. I couldn't be so lucky. He's going late and I'm stuck sitting on the couch in the waiting area.

They sure do try to make the place cozy. From the fern trees neatly placed around the room, to the soothing fake waterfall and art on the walls. The clock ticks at every second and doesn't help against the mazak softly playing over well-placed, hidden speakers. Before I know it I'm laying down on the couch wondering what's taking so long.

I check my watch against the clock hanging on the wall. There have to be some kind of rules against this. Is the person in there having some kind of nervous break-down or something? I'm so consumed by anticipation I didn't even feel myself go. Not that I ever do.

#

Since this first started, it seems like the papers and the trash have just been growing as a few pictures have disappeared from the wall. Is it trying to tell me something? I don't drink, so the bottles have to represent something else, if anything. But what do the photos mean? Before I can analyze them, I'm on my feet again, heading to the kitchen to grab more beer, I suppose. Not this time.

I'm walking toward a door in the living room, stepping over some trash, kicking other bits out of the way as I make my way across the room. The area in front of the door is remarkably cleaner than the rest of the room. The door doesn't look like it's been open in ages, and it feels that way, too, as I start to turn the handle.

With little effort, the door swings open. This room is immaculate. A bed perfectly made, everything clean and polished. The blankets, the drapes, carpet, fixtures, everything looks like it was chosen with the utmost care.

There's a framed picture sitting next to a vase filled with fresh flowers on the dresser. A man, posing with a strikingly beautiful woman and two identical girls.

They look so happy. Why would I be dreaming about a this? I've never even seen these people. None of this makes sense. And why is someone calling my name?

#

How long have I been asleep in the waiting room? Couldn't be very long, it looks like only fifteen minutes have passed on the clock since the last time I checked. The images are burned into my memory. From the collage of photos on the wall, to the photo of that family before I came back to reality.

I spill everything I can remember to this woman. Everything I can remember, anyway. She just looks at me, nodding her head as she writes in her notebook the whole time. She has to think I'm crazy, she keeps making these weird faces. I don't think she even realizes she's doing it.

I wonder how many people come through here telling stories as wild as mine, or worse. All the times I've watched the news, about people killing their entire families because of the voices in their heads. Am I just as crazy as them? Am I eventually going to lose it? Are my dreams going to skew my sense of reality? No. I'm not like them, I can't be.

The session was just as big of a waste of time as the others. After I told her about my paranoia, and looking for the man who was stalking me, she pretty much told me I wasn't getting enough sleep. I already knew that, I've been trying to avoid it. With no help from her I left feeling let down.

Is it possible that I am losing my mind? I don't want to end up in some padded room, rambling about stuff I've seen in dreams as the attendants laugh at me. Being so doped up it's impossible to tell what's real. I guess I'm not really too far off from that now.

#

I stop by the store on my way home from the psychologist. I have an idea: maybe if I medicate myself, I will either not dream or not be able to wake up if I do. I don't really know what my goal is, at this moment anything is worth a shot.

I find myself looking over my shoulder whenever I'm in public. I now feel like someone is watching me everywhere I go. Who's to say there isn't? I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he knows I'm on to him; he's seen me looking around and is being more cautious.

I'm looking at everyone's face. If he's following me I will find him, I'll catch him in the act. I need to get information. Maybe in my dream I can find something; some kind of clue as to who he is, or what he wants. More importantly: why me?

#

Tonight I am calm. I'm trying to act as normal as possible. My wife tells me my trip to the shrink must have done some good. I humor her and say that I think she's right. She's not right, but I'm not going to let this, whatever it is, affect me any longer. I am in control.

After dinner we sit around and watch TV for a while, not really talking about anything. I haven't told her about the house I've seen the pictures, anything. She still thinks I can't remember anything. The last thing I need is for her to know any of it. She'd be out of here for sure.

That night I take my pills and get comfortable. I'm accepting what's coming. I'm cozy, relaxed, ready. I can feel the medication taking effect. I'm not fighting it for the first time in a long time and it feels good.

#

It seems that just when I think I know what's going on, I get thrown a curveball. I'm used to being surrounded by filth; that house's walls surrounding me. Not this time. I'm behind the wheel of a car.

I don't recognize anything around me. I'm trying to catch a glimpse of street signs, or something that stands out; that gives me an idea of where I am. It's no use without control.

My eyes are staring straight ahead at the dark road, one hand on the wheel, another holding a cigarette as my elbow rests on the door. His eyes, his hands, his elbow. I have to remember what's happening. This is not me--I am dreaming--I have to get information.

Finally the headlights shine on a garage door as it pulls into a driveway. I get out grabbing a bag from the back seat and head to the door. The grass is about a foot tall. The outside is as big of a mess as the inside. I can use that to my advantage, taking a mental picture of his lawn.

I unlock the door and head inside. I put the bad next to the door and head toward the wall with all the pictures on it. There aren't many left, just mine and a few others. I could swear there were at least three times this many a few weeks ago.

I pull one off and take it with me to the kitchen. I light the stove and hover the photo over the burner, tossing it into the sink once it ignites. Who was that person, and why did he just burn their photo?

He grabs a beer out of the fridge, and heads back to the couch, where he does his traditional plop onto the couch. As usual, his eyes lock on the wall. Three photos left. One of them is mine.

#

That weekend I do a lot of driving. Looking for the lawn I saw in my dream. I can't find it anywhere. I assumed that if I were being followed, he would live nearby. I've covered almost the entire town, and nothing even resembles what I saw.

Maybe my dreams are skewed. Maybe his house doesn't really look like I see it in my dreams. It could be that it gets misinterpreted from his eyes to my brain. That would explain why I can't find the house.

I'll do another round around town, maybe things will look different in the dark. Maybe I didn't go far enough. I'll cover more ground this time; I'm not going to stop until I find it.

I've been at this for hours. I should probably go home soon. My wife has called me few times. I haven't answered because I haven't thought of a good enough, not-crazy reason for why I've been gone all day.

I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I guess I forgot to eat today. It's no matter. I'm almost done, then I'll turn back. This is last neighborhood, I'll drive through it and head straight home.

#

What was that noise? It sounds like it came from right outside the house. I look out the window and it seems like someone crashed there car into a curb. I walk out my front door and wade through the grass toward the accident. It doesn't look too bad. I wonder if he's okay.

I get over toward the car and there's a man in the driver's seat. It looks like he bumped his head when he wrecked. I knock on the window but he doesn't move. He has some blood coming from his head.

I open the door and tap on his shoulder, but he still doesn't move; his face is resting on the wheel. He seems to still be breathing. I reach toward him and pull his head away from the wheel. My head. In my car.

#

My head is killing me. I must have fallen asleep at the wheel. Where am I? I rub my forehead and look at the blood on my hand. I close my eyes, leaning my head back and take a few deep breaths. I guess it was all a dream. And then I hear it. Someone coughing, right next to me. I open my eyes at look. A man. That man staring right at me, smirking.