Nicemare, Part 2

Hello again, and welcome to my Weekly Dose of Fiction. I post a short story, or I serialize one each Wednesday. When I can, I explain how the idea for each bit of fiction started. This one started because I mispronounced Nightmare and someone found it humorous!

When last we saw Ben Shearer (Part 1), he was not having a good time of it. His nightmares had exhausted him so much that he screwed up at work royally and was fired. Let’s see what happens to him next.

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After losing his job, Ben’s life was on a steady downward slope. He burned through his savings faster than he expected. His landlord, who once greeted him with cheerful nods in the hallway, now avoided his gaze until finally placing an eviction notice on his door.

And then there was Alana.

The fabulous woman he’d never thought would even go out with him, but who, only months earlier, had talked about wedding venues and color schemes. As his affliction worsened, she grew tired of being jolted awake by his screams at night and the way he seemed to disappear into himself during the day.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” she told him the night she left. “It’s that I’m exhausted and you’re no longer here.”

She walked out of his life, and the emptiness she left behind swallowed him completely.

Now, Ben wandered the streets, anonymous in a city that had once recognized his suits and expensive watches. Those watches were gone—pawned for cash. His clothes, soaked and cold in the winter rain, hung loose on his gaunt frame. Cars splashed past him without noticing the man huddled under his thin coat.

He forced himself awake each night as long as he could, pacing sidewalks, ducking under overpasses, drinking cup after cup of gas-station coffee. But inevitably, unbearably, sleep clawed at him. And each time he drifted off, even for seconds, the nightmare returned.

Image by Alexander Fox | PlaNet Fox from Pixabay

The figure kept gaining.

Suicide. It was the only way out of this misery, but he’d need a gun or maybe a high bridge. That would be free. Tomorrow, he’d find one. For now, he needed shelter against the pelting rain that slicked the streets. Tucking his head down, he walked into the wind and stumbled into a recessed doorway of a boarded-up shop. His legs trembled. His vision blurred. His body, exhausted from weeks of torment, he sank to the cold concrete. His eyelids fluttered.

Not yet, he tried to mumble. Please, I can’t sleep—not yet.

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So…I’ve turned the corner on this story, and I almost have Part 3 ready. I hope you’ll stick with me and see Ben through his ordeal. Until next Wednesday!

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