Dreams are the playground of the mind.

The images our brains displayed while our bodies slumber would make little sense if we were to analyse them as they happened. Abrupt changes of location, clothing and even identity would leave us wondering about our own sanity. The adventures and horrors we were submitted to would make us fearful. Our minds, however, knew what they were doing. What it all meant if, indeed, it had meaning at all. To our minds, there was nothing untoward.

To our minds, flying, being in danger, and going shopping in the nude were entirely normal.

So, Cassidy's dream was also perfectly normal.

Elise was gone. The stresses whizzing around her like moons, as devoid of life as her, were gone too. Cass was living in his house, except it wasn't his house. The décor was fresher. It looked new, though with a scheme that would be called 'retro' rather than 'old fashioned.' There was less furniture than he had, and what there was looked to be completely functional. Simple and sparse. There because it had to be, not because it looked nice or filled a space. There were plenty of spaces, ones that would suit plants or ornaments. A bookcase or side table. No such fixtures existed. Not even pictures or photographs on the walls. A mirror hung above the fire place in the lounge. That was all.

The fireplace was different. Cassidy's house didn't have one. Radiators lined some of the walls, negating the need for one. Some people still had them, for the real flame effect, but he'd yet to live in anywhere with anything other than radiators.

He looked in the mirror. Let it serve its purpose, as everything else seemed liable to when required.

He was Cassidy, but he wasn't. In contrast to the building, which was newer, he appeared older. A good – or bad, judging by his reflection – decade. His hair was darker, but flecked with dirty grey. It had tried to spread to his chin, but the resultant patches of whiskers were not the valiant effort hoped for. His eyes were sad and tired, as if they'd seen more sorrow than a lifetime should hold and were still subjected to more. Hanging from his mouth was a cigarette, lit with a half inch of ash clinging to the tip. Cass had never smoked in his life and didn't believe he ever would, so this version of him, a future version in the past, must be... what? An alternate one? One whose life was a series of opportunities missed? Opportunities refused?

It was Cassidy looking through the eyes. Inhaling the smoke. Feeling the weight of a life misspent. Wasted. Enjoyed, but in all the wrong ways and regretting it. And not preparing to change because, even with regret, there was a terrible enjoyment.

Other Cassidy took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it on the hearth amid the remains of many others, putting it out with the toe of his battered shoe. He gulped a mouthful of the cheap own brand lager he held and slammed the can down on the mantlepiece.

Belch. Wipe nose with fingers and wipe them on his jeans.

Cassidy was horrified at his actions. He didn't do this. Any of it. Yet, he was doing and it all felt natural. He turned away from the mirror and walked into the hall. As he took the bottom step, he belched again, smiling proudly at the volume and taste. Hmmm. Meaty, with a spicy hint of nicotine.

He went up the stairs steadily. With purpose. Each footfall was placed down with deliberate timing and force. He knew the sound it would make and the impact, physical and emotional it would have. And he liked it.

He could hear movement upstairs. The scurry of someone hearing the approaching storm and preparing, futilely, to prepare for it.

He reached the landing and stood outside the bedroom door. A deliberate pause, just to add a little tension. Add some fun. Add some fear.

His hand was on the door handle. Turning it. Pushing it.

He could feel the grin on his face widen briefly before hiding behind a mask of anger.

Dreams can suck us under their spell and hold us captive. Dreams can fool our minds into thinking they're aiding us when they actually have machinations of their own. Dreams can...

Cassidy opened his eyes and, for a moment, they were all he could move. They darted about the room, trying to see anything in the darkness within his limited field of view. Thanks to the slivers of street lamps edging into the room through the gaps at the sides of his window blind, the darkness wasn't absolute. He could make out some details, such as his tall bedside lamp and the shade hanging from the central light. But what was he looking for? Why was his heart thudding in his chest? Why was he afraid?

The dream. Yes, it was coming back to him, swimming through the murk of his weary head. The dream. He had been... Wait... What had he been? Who had he been?

The details of the dream faded rapidly, becoming more indistinct than the outline of his bedside lamp, then vanishing completely. He tried to grab on to it, so he could recall it properly, but couldn't. It was gone. He was left with the pounding heart and the feeling he was going to...

Cass threw the covers back and rushed from the room. He made it to the toilet bowl in time for the vomit to spew from his mouth. He was on his knees, clinging to the ceramic edge for support, panting and spitting. His head throbbed in time with his heart, and he thought both might split in two.

He didn't move. He couldn't. To do so would probably result in him collapsing as soon as he stood. It was a long time until he felt able to simply let go of the toilet, and he used the bath and basin to shakily stand. After he had flushed, rinsed his mouth, splashed his face and washed his hands, he shuffled back to his bed.

What the hell was that?

He couldn't remember the last time he'd thrown up. His stomach, while not impervious to every upset, could fight its corner. There was little that would cause it distress. Was it the dream? Had he even had a dream, or was it just his imagination?

He sat forward with his duvet gathered around his waist. He was holding his shins through the covers and rocking slightly. Breathe. Just breathe.

Eventually, he felt more in control. The trembling was subsiding and his heartbeat returning to normal. He was trying to recall what woke him and sickened him so. There had been a bad dream, right? Often, he'd wished he remembered his night-time journeys. On this occasion, Cassidy was pleased he couldn't. Whatever his brain had been doing unsettled him still. He just didn't know why.

He laid back down. A decent night's sleep was important to him, though he didn't often manage one. Early mornings for work were chased by late nights, made so from the need to relax and binge watch the latest show to attract his attention. He knew it would be better for him to go to bed earlier. He told himself regularly. Taking his own advice wasn't something he was prone to do, however. Broken sleep only made his early mornings worse, and there'd been multiple times where he was sitting at his office desk, rubbing his eyes and closing them for a few seconds. He'd yet to nod off, knowing it was only a matter of time. Then he'd have another late night.

Simply closing his eyes and waiting never worked. Slumber remained elusive, deliberately keeping out of reach. It knew it was needed and only came when it wanted to, not when commanded. Counting sheep was as successful as closing eyes. He stared at the ceiling. The curves in the Artex gave something to follow, allowing his eyes to drift along them. He could see faces in the shapes. A tree. A dog? No, a wolf. They stared back, daring him to drift off. What would they do if he did? Would the tree rustle? Would the wolf howl? The one looking like his old English teacher, would it start talking to him about punctuation and sentence structure?

It didn't matter, he felt wide awake.

Perhaps a glass of water would help. Laying there and hoping was a waste of time. Have a drink. Give himself a chance to shake off the lingering trepidation. On his return, he'd ask his smart speaker to play thunderstorms. The sound of rain was always relaxing, with the quiet rumbles of thunder whispering to him, lulling him.

As he passed the wardrobe, Cass glanced in the mirror. He yawned and scratched his stomach. The gym was calling, but so was the chocolate. His sweet tooth didn't like exercise.

In the kitchen, he ran the tap for a few seconds, filled the glass he'd taken from the cupboard and emptied it out. He had no idea why he always did that. The glass was clean. He'd washed it himself. So, why bother giving it a rinse before filling it to drink?

He grimaced as he took the first mouthful. Wow, that was cold. Refreshing, though. By the time he was back in his bed, the glass was half empty and his mouth was used to the shock of the water's temperature. He placed it on the bedside table, which was less a table and more a set of drawers with a cupboard under them, much like its sibling on the other side of the bed. OK, take two.

He laid down again. Maybe this time.

The house was quiet. A car drove past outside, causing a dog to bark. Rather than being intrusive, the sounds were welcome. Welcoming, in fact. As new as it was, this was his home. The noises from the neighbourhood were his companions as he began this new life alone. They would be his company. Before he closed his eyes for what, he knew, would be the last time for the night, he scanned the room.

After being with Elise, it was strange sleeping alone. He was still on the same side of the bed he'd slept on when they shared one. Old habits, he thought. He could spread out. Starfish. He didn't. He was curled up, quilt pulled up to his neck, just as he would be if she were there. She wasn't, and Cassidy had no issue with that. It seemed he had a way to go to be used to it.

The gloom in the room blurred the edges of everything and the glow from the edges of the window blind only reached so far in. They did reflect on the mirror's glass, though. It stopped the room being too dark. It also showed something else.

Writing.

On the mirror.

Hello.

https://youtu.be/qF9dCWmq3pM