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Waking from a Dream

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Waking from a Dream

I had everything a man could ever want. A beautiful wife, two wonderful kids, and a cozy house on a quiet street. Life was good—perfect, even. My wife, Emily, had the kind of laugh that could light up a room. Our kids, Lily and James, were the most precious little souls. I remember taking Lily to her first day of school, watching James learn to ride his bike. Simple, mundane moments that filled my heart with a warmth I never knew I could feel.

Years passed in what felt like a blissful blur. Family dinners, vacations, late-night talks with Emily after the kids went to bed—everything was so vivid. I could feel the warmth of her hand in mine, the soft touch of her lips, the smell of her hair. I remember how she used to hum a song while she cooked dinner, the way she crinkled her nose when she laughed. It all felt so real.

Then one day, I woke up.

Not in my bed next to Emily, but in a cold, empty room. My heart pounded as I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The room was unfamiliar, sterile. White walls, a single bed, a flickering fluorescent light above me. I sat up, disoriented. Where was I? Where was my family?

I stumbled out of the bed, my legs shaky, and found a small, grimy bathroom attached to the room. My reflection in the mirror was that of a younger man than I remembered. Panic surged through me. I rushed out of the room and found myself in a decrepit apartment, the air thick with dust. The windows were boarded up, and the only door was bolted shut from the inside.

My heart raced as memories flooded back—memories of a different life. I had no wife, no kids. I was alone. The realization hit me like a freight train: none of it was real. It was just a dream, a cruel, elaborate fantasy my mind had concocted.

But how? How could something that felt so tangible, so undeniably real, be just a figment of my imagination? I spent days, weeks—maybe even months—locked in that apartment, grappling with the reality that my perfect life had been a lie. The love of my life, my children… they never existed. I was trapped in an empty existence, haunted by memories of a life that wasn’t mine.

Then, one day, I heard a knock on the door. My heart leaped. I rushed to open it, expecting—what exactly, I wasn’t sure. But when I swung the door open, it wasn’t my dream family standing there. It was her. Emily.

Except this Emily wasn’t the loving wife from my dream. She looked at me with cold, empty eyes. Her face was the same, but there was no warmth in her gaze, no recognition. She stared at me like a stranger, and I realized, with a sickening jolt, that this was the real Emily.

In my dream, she had been perfect, everything I ever wanted. But now, seeing her standing there, I knew the truth. She was just someone I had fabricated to fill the void in my miserable, lonely life.

I asked her if she remembered me, if she remembered our life together. She laughed—a cold, hollow sound that sent shivers down my spine. “You’re insane,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I don’t know you. Leave me alone.”

The words cut through me like a knife. I felt something inside me snap. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be mine, to love me like she had in the dream. It wasn’t fair.

I don’t remember much of what happened next. It’s all a blur. A flash of movement, her screams echoing in the empty apartment, the feeling of cold steel in my hand. When I came to, I was standing over her lifeless body. Blood pooled around her, and her eyes stared up at me, still and glassy.

I stumbled back, horrified at what I had done. But somewhere, deep down, a part of me felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. In the dream, she had been mine. She was supposed to be mine, always. And now, in this bleak reality, she would never leave me. She would never deny our life together again.

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at her body. Minutes, hours—it didn’t matter. The world outside went on, oblivious to what had happened in this forgotten corner of reality. Eventually, I dragged her body into the bathroom and shut the door. I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I just wanted to return to the dream, to the life that had been ripped away from me.

But dreams are fickle things, and now, every time I close my eyes, I’m greeted not by my perfect family but by the memory of what I did. Her lifeless eyes haunt me, staring into my soul, a reminder that the dream was never real, and this nightmare is my true reality.

I still hear her sometimes, humming that tune as if she’s just in the next room. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s something else. But one thing is certain: even in death, she won’t let me forget that the life I had was just a lie, and the price of clinging to that lie was far too real.

And now, I live in that small, empty apartment, with nothing but the echoes keep me company.

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