Fiction · Little stories

Arsee’s little stories 67

“This is a dream, I know I dreaming!” He shouted. The room was a dull green with black leather couches. The flickering neon of the cheap hotel across the street lit the room in spurts of red.

“This is the reality! You are mistaken!” The professor was trying hard to convince him.

“We are a group of rebels that need to tell the world that the dream is the reality and the reality is the dream,” he said forcefully. “For too long the world has been fooled. You need to remember! Remember!!” The professor screamed louder to make his point.

“Who are these people and why would they want us to believe that the reality is a dream?” He was trying his best to understand. The professor took a deep breath, exasperated, “This is a place where we cannot do anything wrong. Its heavily secured so we act out what we cannot do here, on the other side. If we want to murder here, we murder there. If we want to rape here, we rape there and then we suffer here and there. It is designed by the keepers to stop us from thinking anything wrong here. In other words, this is real life and that is a prison where we suffer the correction. Do you understand?” The professor looked at him, his eyes filled with hope and then a loud sound shattered the scene.

The Editor of the leading newspaper of the country woke up with the sound of the shrieking alarm. His heart thumping against his chest and sweat trickling down his brow. It was just a dream he told himself, just a bloody dream!

As he walked into his office later that day he found some pictures on his desk and a reporter burst in to inform him that they were from a shootout in Frankfurt, Germany.

The very first picture showed a dull green room with black leather couches lit by the red neon light that streamed through a window. A man lay dead on the floor, “Professor Kaufmann, the lead scientist on a sleep disorder project,” informed the reporter.

The Editor stood frozen behind his desk. The only way to find out more was to sleep.

-Arsee.

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