SHE WAKES DRENCHED IN DREAMS

Aira woke up screaming.

The room was dim, bathed in the pale blue light of dawn. Sweat clung to her like a second skin. Her blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, and her pillow was soaked. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—only that she had to run. Escape.

Then the clock buzzed gently—6:47 a.m.

The dream still clung to her skin like frost.

The roses.

The melting cupcakes.

Her father’s empty eyes.

The giraffe’s needle-teeth.

And her own nine-year-old face smiling while bleeding from the ears.

She curled into herself, whispering, “It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.”

But it felt real. Too real. Every sound, every smell. She could still taste the frosting. Still feel the stitching of her yellow dress against her skin.

That morning, her sketchbook stayed closed. She didn’t dare open it.

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At 10:05 a.m., she sat in Dr. Merin’s office, legs pulled tight to her chest on the old green couch.

Dr. Merin was a soft-voiced woman with silver hair and big, owl-like glasses. Her office was too warm and smelled like lemon balm. She always offered tea. Aira never drank it.

“You want to talk about the dream?” the therapist asked gently.

Aira stared at her hands. “It felt like remembering. But… poisoned.”

“Poisoned how?”

“Like something broke in it. Like something went wrong inside the memory and just started eating everything.”

Dr. Merin scribbled gently. “What did it show you?”

Aira hesitated.

“If I say it out loud… will it make it more real?”

“That’s something you get to decide.”

Aira swallowed, her voice trembling. “My dad. His eyes were empty. My birthday—everything was melting. My favorite toy came to life and… talked. But not like a dream. Like I was watching something. Like I was meant to see it.”

Dr. Merin leaned forward. “You mentioned something like this before. That your dreams feel like… glimpses. Are they always violent?”

Aira nodded slowly. “They weren’t before. They are now.”

“And the drawings?”

Aira winced.

Dr. Merin pushed gently. “You said you drew something last week. Something you didn’t recognize.”

“I drew a man,” Aira whispered. “I don’t know why. His throat was open, but he was smiling. It was like… like he wanted to be hurt. The next day, I saw him on the news.”

Dr. Merin blinked. “You saw him?”

“He was dead. Same smile. Same gash. A man they found in the woods. His name was Ronith Kale. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to draw him.”

The room went still.

Dr. Merin set down her pen.

“Aira,” she said carefully, “You may be experiencing something called hyperphantasia—extremely vivid imagination—and a form of intrusive premonitory delusion.”

Aira stared. “You think I’m making it up in my head.”

“I think your mind is doing what it always does—protecting you, even when it doesn’t feel like protection. But I also think we might need to increase your observation period.”

“You want me back in the center?”

“Just for a little while. Somewhere safe.”

Safe. That word again. Aira didn’t know what it meant anymore.

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