The Dream
by
debbye chambers
Pavel Chekov sat straight up in bed. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. The only sounds he heard were his deep, ragged breaths.
He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed as he called to the computer, "Lights." His bed covers were soaked with sweat, and his tee-shirt and shorts clung to his damp skin. Rubbing his eyes with his sweaty palms, Chekov tried to sort out the remaining fragments of the nightmare fading from his memory.
Not that it really mattered that he tried. A few minutes more and every memory would be a shadow fleeing from his consciousness. It always happened that way, and it seemed the harder he tried to remember, the faster the shadows disappeared. Always. Night after night. At least this time, he hadn’t woke screaming. Knowing it would be useless to try to go back to sleep, he headed for the shower.
He stopped to look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles under his eyes made it hard to pretend he was sleeping these last two weeks. Even the Captain had remarked on how tired he looked. Fortunately, the Captain hadn’t noticed the mistakes Chekov fought desperately to keep from making during his shifts. It was getting more difficult to concentrate.
What the hell is the matter with me? It is just a nightmare; I have had nightmares before. Why can’t I shake this one off? The face that stared back at him had no answers.
A quick shower and clean clothes made him feel somewhat better. Still, the nightmare he couldn’t remember nagged at him. Sometimes during the day, he would hear something or see something that would almost remind him of something in the dream. Almost.
He shook his head to clear it. Since going back to bed appeared to be unproductive, he may as well find something useful to do. And he would prefer to do it elsewhere. The idea of staying in this room alone the rest of the night was somewhat less than appealing.
