Red Eyes Behind The Tile

First night: Subject walks from the void into the dull light of a bathroom. There is a large mirror over the bathroom sink. The subject stares at his reflection. It looked off. His eyes are half-closed, and his hair is dishevelled. The low hum of the struggling light seems to intensify, which noticeably unsettles the subject. White and mint green tiles cover the bathroom walls. The subject has not yet broken eye contact with his reflection. There is a sudden scraping sound coming from behind the subject. He tilts his head in response to the noise, but he still does not break eye contact. Out of his peripheral vision, the subject sees one of the mint tiles in the wall behind him start to shift. The snaps of the dried glue make the subject sick to his stomach. The tile falls out of the wall. There is a sudden spike in the heartbeat of the subject. A pair of eyes glare at the subject through the newly made window to the emptiness. They are colourless, bloodshot and permeated with apathy. This is the only time during the experiment that the subject breaks eye contact with its reflection. The subject wants to run away, get out of this hell, but his body won't move. Instead, he gazes into those bloodshot eyes. The experiment ends. The subject's heartbeat slows, and he breathes a sigh of uneasy relief.

The word "dream" has a couple of definitions. One of these definitions is "a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep," which makes them sound very random, for lack of a better word. They are just an arbitrary string of thoughts tossed together by your subconscious. Clocks don't tell the time, language is understandable yet somehow also gibberish, and your reflections don't look like you. Nonsensical. However, many people think we can decipher these meaningless thoughts to learn more about ourselves. There are a couple of familiar tropes that usually symbolize certain situations, but these tropes can have very different interpretations. For example, eyes in dreams are generally representative of two things. If you wake up and believe that they were your own eyes, they usually represent your soul looking back and judging your recent actions and decisions. If they're the eyes of an unknown, they can express how you believe others see you, including friends, family, and society in general. Either way, people usually wake up from these dreams with raised heartbeats and a loss of breath because most of the time, those judgmental eyes aren't staring with kindness. 

Second night: Subject is in the back seat of a car attempting to drive down a busy street. Other vehicles on the road make themselves known using excessive honking and incomprehensible shouting. The subject rapidly taps his fingers on the beat-down leather seats and frantically checks his watch every couple of seconds. The clock's face has nothing on it, but the subject doesn't seem to care. He groans anxiously and taps the driver of the car on the shoulder, telling him wordlessly to hurry up. The driver turns away from the road and looks critically at the subject, who gasps in shock. The driver's head resembles that of a wooden mannequin but is without a doubt the subject's father. Is it disappointed? Suddenly there's an intense blare followed by a wail of screeching breaks coming from the car's left. There is an excruciatingly loud crash, and the subject is flung violently through the window. The experiment ends. The subject's heart rate is still racing as he checks his chest for injuries. 

One theory about faces in a dream is that it is impossible to perfectly remember the details of a human face. The human memory (and by proxy the subconscious thoughts) cannot contain the perfect details and usually fails to make up something even close to resembling one due to unconscious memory distortions. It usually just ends up being a jumble of features your brain throws together. (Psycologicalscience.org) The thing is, does it matter? In a dream, you are able to understand who someone is despite that husk that they take over. You are the one who gives them their identity. They are simply what you think of yourself, said/shown through the empty vessel of a friend or family member—a cruel method your mind uses to torture yourself. However, this idea is only comforting when you wake up, and even then, the terrors of the night still linger in the back of the dreamer's mind. A dark spot forever stained on my subconscious.

Third night: Subject is in a large grass field. Within it is a hill with a lonely tree sitting atop it. The subject walks towards it. As it gets closer, the subject starts to hear whispering from behind him. He turns towards it and sees his family and friends. They stop speaking as soon as he looks at them. They make no noise and no movements. They simply stare down at him with cruel intensity, similar to the way a cat would stare down its prey, waiting for it to make a single false step. He rolls his eyes and continues to walk towards the tree. The soft gossiping starts again, so the subject whips around, and the murmurs begin to die down, but much slower this time. The subject's heart sinks. He turns and walks quickly toward the tree. The chatting starts up again instantly, and it's much louder than before. The subject starts to run, the intolerable voices echoing in his ears. He covers them with his hands and grits his teeth, running towards the hill. By now, their voices are screaming into the subject's head, ripping down his self-confidence and replacing it with doubt. He pushes on through all the noise. He looks up through the wails of harassment, and his heart sinks. The field is empty, and the tree is gone. The subject’s screams join the shrieking chorus. The experiment ends. The subject has a splitting headache.

I have figured out the phenomena of the dream, but I now wonder, what about its infamous brother, the nightmare? Typically when someone mentions nightmares, people are filled with sudden fear, as if the reminder of one casts a hex on them, destined to have an uneasy rest. A dream can show us our hopes for the future and our nonsensical fantasies that even writers like me are too embarrassed to share. However, nightmares are thought to be caused by the stress, pressures, and anxieties of everyday life. They show our fears, unveil our self-doubt and above all, put our darkest selves in the spotlight. However, research shows that nightmares can help the recipient deal with the stress that caused it in the first place. (time.com) Does this not point towards the claim that they are beneficial despite being frightful at the moment? If this is the case, why can someone wake up from a dream like this and second guess themself, despite doing nothing that would warrant doubt in their day-to-day actions? Either way, I need an aspirin.

Fourth night: Subject is walking through an empty school hallway. The school is dark, and the silence is deafening. The subject turns the corner and gazes into the colourless bloodshot eyes of a tall figure coated in shadows. The subject’s heartbeat is racing, and he starts to run away. The figure shifts over to the subject and looks down on him, so close that if it had breath, the subject would be able to feel it on his neck. The subject's heart sinks lower for every second he spends not running away. Every bone in the subject’s body tells him to sprint as fast as possible away from this creature, but he refuses to move. Instead, he stands his ground. He can hear the malice in their tone, their words cutting through his heart like rusty harpoons through a whale. But then, just as he is about to pivot and run like he always does, he notices something.

One of the bloodshot eyes twitches. They are still belittling the subject, but the voiceless slurs seem quieter now since the subject is more focused on the twitching of the eye. The figure notices this, and they screech at the subject. It’s so loud that it sends a violent shiver down the subject’s spine, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he smiles. The figure pushes the subject away and starts to convulse, losing control over the writhing shadows that make its form. The figure thrashes wildly like a blind hyena. It swipes at the subject, but he evades them cautiously. The figure, now much smaller, screeches one last time and retreats into the void. The subject is left alone in the empty school halls. The experiment ends, and without hesitation, the subject opens his journal and begins to write:

How do people get over their fears? How is it possible that they can just grab the darkest part of their personality by the scruff, grit their teeth and say, “I'm not afraid of you,” without crumpling to the floor like a deflated hot air balloon? It has always seemed next to impossible to me, but I think I am starting to figure it out. For one thing, I don't believe they say “I'm not afraid of you” but rather “I’m not afraid of me.” Because at the end of the day, the nightmares I have are just that. Nightmares. All the conversations we imagine our close friends having at our expense are usually just a series of conversations we make up because we care, and we are scared of losing the people we love. What is the figure in my mirror but a monster I created?

Fifth night: I walk from the void into the dull light of a bathroom. There is a large mirror over the bathroom sink. I stare at my reflection. It looks off. The constant hum of the bathroom light illuminates him. It puts him on edge. Right on cue, the scratching starts. My reflection tilts his head in response to it. I do not, but I maintain eye contact. My heartbeat is heavy but slow. I see the mint green tile fall to the floor out of my peripheral vision. It hits the floor soundlessly. The bloodshot eyes stare at me through the mirror. I can feel the dark tendrils of doubt start to creep into my soul, filling my heart with dread. But then I see it—the slightest twitch from one of its shame-filled eyes. I turn around slowly and face them. I lean down and pick up the tile. I once again see my reflection in its emerald tint, but tears are streaming down his face this time. He sobs silently, his eyes red, aggravated by all the rubbing. I stand back up, and after one last look at my old self, I put the green tile back in its place, momentarily silencing the doubts. I look at the mirror, smile at my reflection and walk out into the void. I wake up, get out of bed, check my dishevelled hair in the mirror, and get ready for my day.