17. Gilbert
17
GILBERT
The soft glow of the nightlight in the hallway barely penetrates the darkness of my room. It’s quiet, the kind of deep silence that settles over the house late at night, wrapping everything in a peaceful hush.
I’m caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, where dreams feel vivid and real. In my dream, I see Ashlynn at Rachel’s grave again, her face lit with a radiant smile as she dances gracefully, her movements fluid and ethereal, her eyes closed as she loses herself in the music. .
It’s a scene I’ve witnessed in real life, but here, in the dream, everything feels heightened — her joy and beauty, even the way she seems to defy gravity. She’s a vision of strength and elegance, and I feel a warmth in my chest watching her. There’s a sense of peace and contentment, a moment of perfect tranquility that I want to last forever.
Suddenly, the scene shifts.
The warmth fades, replaced by a sharp, jarring sensation. Ashlynn’s expression abruptly changes from joy to fear, and a sudden, inexplicable dread seizes my body. I hear a scream, distant and muffled, and my eyes snap open, my heart jolting awake.
I sit up, disoriented, the remnants of the dream still clinging to my mind. For a moment, I think I imagined it, the echoes of the dream and the scream mingling in my half-awake brain. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the clock on my side table. I lie back down, trying to shake off the unease.
Then, I hear it again — louder and clearer this time — a desperate cry that pierces the quiet, raw and filled with terror.
Ashlynn.
My heart lurches, and I’m out of bed in an instant, my pulse racing, my bare feet quiet on the wooden floor as I make my way to her room. I’m fully awake now, adrenaline surging through my veins. The sounds of her distress grow clearer as I approach, her door slightly ajar. Another scream, raw and desperate, echoes through the halls. My heart aches at the sound, a mix of professional concern and something deeper, more personal.
Pushing the door open gently, I step inside. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of a nightlight, casting long shadows on the walls. She’s thrashing in her bed, tangled in the sheets. Her usually serene face is contorted with fear, her eyes squeezed shut, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, also damp with sweat.
She mutters incoherent words between cries, her hands gripping the blanket as if holding on for dear life. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the labored, panicked breaths she’s taking. She looks so small, so vulnerable, caught in the grip of whatever horror her mind has conjured.
Seeing her like this, so vulnerable and distressed, sends a pang of concern through me. I know how real these nightmares can feel, how they can pull someone into a dark, terrifying place. As a psychiatrist, I’ve helped patients navigate their fears, but it’s different when it’s someone you care about. The professional detachment I usually maintain is hard to hold onto.
I approach her cautiously, aware of how careful I need to be. Waking someone from a nightmare can be disorienting and sometimes even frightening.
“Ashlynn,” I call softly, my voice calm and steady as I sink to my knees beside her bed.
She doesn’t respond, lost in whatever horror her mind has conjured. Her eyelids flutter, but they don’t open. Her breathing is ragged, and her movements are frantic. I reach out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Ash, wake up,” I say a bit more firmly, my thumb lightly brushing her skin. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Slowly, her eyelids flutter, then open, wide and unfocused at first. For a moment, she looks right through me as if I’m not really there, her breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps as she struggles to separate the dream from reality. I can see the terror still clinging to her, the remnants of the nightmare refusing to let go.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I murmur, my voice soft and soothing. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”
Recognition slowly dawns in her eyes, the fear giving way to confusion and then relief. She blinks several times, her breathing gradually slowing as the real world comes into focus.
“Gilbert?” She finally whispers, her voice shaky and confused.
I nod, offering a reassuring smile. “Yeah, it’s me.” I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You were having a nightmare, but it’s over now. You’re okay.”
She blinks, the fog of sleep lifts from her eyes. She takes a deep, shaky breath, the tension slowly leaving her body. Tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly wipes them away, looking embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“You don’t need to apologize,” I say softly, my hand still on her shoulder, grounding her in the present. “Nightmares can be really intense, but you’re here with me now. You’re safe.”
The relief in her eyes is palpable, and she exhales a long, shuddering breath. I can see her trying to compose herself, her hands loosening their grip on the blanket. The room feels calmer now, the lingering echoes of the nightmare fading into the background.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, and her answer is swift.
She shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Not right now.”
I nod, understanding. That’s okay too. I won’t push her. I sit down on the edge of her bed, close enough to offer comfort but not so close as to overwhelm her. She looks so small and vulnerable wrapped in her blankets, her face still pale from the terror of the dream.
“I’ll stay with you, just until you fall back asleep — if that’s alright with you.”
She nods, her eyes grateful. “Thank you.” A beat passes, then she throws the covers off her body. “Wet clothes,” she mumbles under her breath as she climbs out of bed and retrieves fresh sheets from the pull-out drawer under her bed.
I take the sheets from her, our fingers brushing slightly. “Here, let me.”
Her eyes go wide. “But?—”
“But nothing. Go do what you need to,” I tell her, trying really hard to keep my brain from conjuring up a vivid image of what she looks like less clothed. “I promised not to leave until you fall back asleep, and I won’t.”
We’ve done this a few times now, and she still fights me on it each time.
Twenty minutes, fresh sheets, fresh clothes and a lorazepam later, she’s settled in, her eyes still red but calmer. As promised, I stay by her side, my presence a silent promise that she’s not alone in this. I keep my voice low, speaking softly about mundane things, anything to help her feel grounded. She listens, her breaths slowly evening out, the tension gradually leaving her body.
As her breathing becomes steady and deep, I watch her eyelids flutter closed, exhaustion finally pulling her into a more peaceful sleep. I feel a deep, protective tenderness for her, a desire to shield her from the nightmares, from any pain.
By the time I leave, the room is quieter, filled with the gentle rhythm of her breathing. I hope that wherever her dreams take her now, they’re kinder, filled with light and warmth.
She deserves that and so much more.