Read My Best Friend Eats My Dreams :: Depths of Darkness

Kam opens the door to his room. He never made his bed this morning. Two pillows and two person sized openings in the single blanket greeted him. Kam bangs his fist against his head.

“Get out of there, you idiot,” he says to the empty room. Resigned, he sits on the bed. “I hate that you’re all I think about.” He can almost hear Asa laughing. He grabs his dream journal and its single entry. “Would I be a better writer if I remembered my dreams? Have you been robbing me of my real dreams?”

He knows Asa will be there when he sleeps. He’s not ready for it. Kam eyes the melatonin. “This is your fault.” Maybe, if he never knew. If he never saw Asa that one time eating, feeding. Maybe if Asa ate his dream in time, he could have…no. That’s wrong. There is no running from this. For his whole life, his best friend has been eating his dreams. There is no escape from that. He takes one melatonin gummy and rests his head on the pillow.

The sudden weight of his drum surprises Kam. The voices are distorted, but clearly, his band mates are next to him. His eyes open, but the sight is unfamiliar to him. He stands where the band would enter their stadium for half-time shows, but it’s a terrible facsimile. The walls ooze, blink, and shimmer as he prepares to play. The team banners are a gaudy pink with bright yellow text reading H̴̡̱̻̾̆o̵̖̾͝m̸͙̬̫̽̾̑͜ē̵̱ ̵̝̖̼͉̂̈͒̾ȯ̷̳͔f̴̰͔͂͘ ̸͚̖̄́̉͊t̶̛̰͕̔h̵͇̀͂͠ė̵͚ ̵̠̉̃̈́͜͝Ǹ̴̠̮̹̋̌͘i̵̖̙̭͆ḡ̵̦̳͈̠̽ḧ̵͈͔́͘ẗ̸̖͖͚͍́́m̴͚̰̥̃̽̃̔ạ̵̤̲̾͝ŕ̴̜̆͌e̷̖̜͔̫͂̆͊s̸̰̙̆͝.

Dread closes in on Kam, but he is helpless to his routine. Around him are facsimile band mates. Their shapes are right. Their hair and uniform is exactly the same. It’s the faces, or, the lack there-of. Because, instead of faces, they just have eyes. One eye. Three eyes. Twenty eyes. Anything but two eyes. Each one stares at him. When he bends down to pick up a dropped stick, their eyes follow. All of them.

When the band kicks off, they watch.

The band plays. They watch.

Even as he hears them play notes, conduct the band, cheer from the stands, they all watch.

They all watch.

They all-

Kam drops a stick.

They turn.

Kam does not know how he knows they turned to him, but he knows. The shadowy facsimiles of his band mates are judging.

The air grows thick and stale as a bead of cold sweat drips down Kam’s neck. There is a sound that should never be heard in a crowded stadium. Silence.

“I’m sorry.” Kam’s voice is a pebble in the waterfall of quiet. His body refuses to listen to his commands as if it’s stuck on a coaster track. He begins bending to pick up the stick, holding back tears. He reaches for his stick. “It won’t happen again, it won’t-”

Asa’s voice breaks through. “Rough day, huh.”