Nocturnal

Pleasant Dreams

Rex woke suddenly, sat straight up in bed. His chest heaved, his face dripped with sweat that cooled in the night air.

In the dream, Rex hadn’t feared Oscar.

Oscar had feared Rex.

Then the grabbing, the biting, and that taste …

The taste of blood.

Rex pushed back the damp covers. The air cooled his sweaty skin. It also cooled a spot down there.

He looked to his bedroom door. It was closed. He looked at the clock — 3:14 A.M. Roberta would be asleep.

He pushed the covers down past his legs. In the alarm clock’s faint red light, he saw a darker spot on his underwear.

Rex reached down and touched.

Wet.

He looked at the door again. In his sleep, he had done the bad thing, the naughty thing. Would she find out? If she did, she would beat him.

Rex started to shake. He slid the underwear off, then stuffed them in the bottom of his book bag. He grabbed three sheets of Kleenex and cleaned himself up. Eyes constantly flicking to the door, he put on a fresh pair of underwear.

So weird that he’d dreamed about Oscar.

Rex quietly walked to his desk. A streetlight outside his window cast a dim glow on his most recent drawing — a pencil sketch of Rex using a sledgehammer to crush the skull of Oscar Woody.

How he wished that was reality, that he could strike back at them, make them pay. But drawings and dreams weren’t real life. Rex felt tears welling up in his eyes. He grabbed the paper, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash.

He then crawled back into bed, his sheets still wet with his own sweat.

Rex threw his head down on the pillow and pulled the covers up tight. His eyes squeezed shut. Shaking and alone, he cried.