Was it even real at all?
I exist, Miriam wanted to scream. My veins pump blood. My lungs inhale and exhale. My mind hold thoughts. And my heart is breaking. I can feel it. It is real.
Miriam had been brought up to look after the sleeping being, without question, with only dedication to him, it, and the dream, because the dream was their existence, the dream was everything. Or so she had been told. She had been raised to understand that not everything could be understood. Believe. Have faith. But doubt had crept into her mind, doubt about the Sleeper, doubt about the dream, doubt about everything she was born to believe.
A dream? Samuel Miller had not merely been a dream! He had been real! And he had been hers! And that fact was more real than anything she had ever known in her entire pathetic life.
After a brief silence, Abram and Isaac again began to bang forcefully on the oak door. It broke her thoughts but she managed to swiftly grab the shards. But the noise of the banging caused the Sleeper to stir, as he had been doing more and more lately, sometimes seemingly in pain.
An awakening.
Whenever an awakening began and the sleeper started to stir from his slumber, the Keepers would have to whisper him back to slumber, however they could do so. In the past it was accomplished via herbs, like Valerian and Skullcap, which was used to make mixtures and tonics. Things have changed, however, along with evolution of society. In the present day, whenever the sleeper began to stir, to wake, the Keepers would have to gather medicine, like strong anesthetics. Like Morphine.
Several more voices suddenly joined those of her uncle and husband. She ignored them, too.
Out of nowhere, feelings of pity and empathy washed over Miriam. She considered the awakenings from a different angle. The sleeper might want to wake, but the Keepers would not let him. She thought about how they forced their so-called sleeping God back to sleep for their own personal gain. They would not let the sleeper wake. They would not give up their own existence. They drugged him and doped him up on whatever medication they could get their hands on.
Was he a Gpd or a prisoner?
She swatted away the thoughts and the empathy. It no longer mattered. Whatever he was, she would put it to the test. She would get her answers, one way or another.
The muscle in the Sleeper’s lower arm twitched causing the arm itself to jerk. He wanted to wake, Miriam assumed, why else would he be stirring more and more?
Miriam Miller put down the wicker basket that she was still holding. Using her own candle, she walked around the darkened room and lit the other candles that were mounted along the expanse of the wall.
“I have to do this, my love,” Miriam mumbled, knowing that no one outside of the room heard her words. “I have to do this for our son.”
Leaning down, she opened the top of the basket. Inside was a medical bag filled with a clear liquid. She looked at the name on the side of the bag, but couldn’t begin to pronounce the medical term. Using the tip of her held candle, she put the fire to the corner of the bag. In no time the thick plastic twisted and melted, a charred hole forming. The liquid began to spill out and onto the stone of the floor. Miriam held the bag firmly upright and watched the medicine fall and fall until there was no more left.
“I’m going to give you what you want,” she told the Sleeper. “I’m going to let you wake.” Miriam sprung over to the bed and put her face over top of the sleeping God. “Wake up…you son of a bitch! And give me back my son! I want him back you selfish…oblivious bastard!” She climbed onto the bed and put herself nose-to-nose with the so-called center of existence. “Give me back my son!”
Miriam Miller no longer cared about the illusion or whether or not the Sleeper woke. She no longer cared about the fake or the fact. Maybe she and everyone else would simply cease to be. Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares? Which would be worse? Was it worse to live and die as part of another’s dream? Or was it worse finding out another truth, to find out that an entire life in servitude had been for nothing? They could see and touch the Sleeper. Did it mean that when he woke…did it mean that…what did it mean?
“WAKE UP!”
Maybe she had simply gone crazy. Maybe the grief over losing her son had driven her mad. Maybe? Maybe
Another tremble spread through the muscles of the Sleeper’s arm, rising into his shoulders. Suddenly, his head jerked to the side and then back again. It then jerked to the other side…and then back again.
“Wake…up,” Miriam said in a whisper that time. A wave of some form of energy rushed through her body, she felt it flashing through her core. Her sense of self weakened. She fought it. “Wake…up,” she whispered again, but her conviction was wavering. Her mind began to blur, become fuzzy. Miriam found it hard to concentrate. For a brief second, she had to remind herself where she was and who she was.
Miriam Miller.
A Keeper of Little Rest.
But what did any of that mean?
The Sleeper convulsed. Two arms shot up and wrapped themselves around her. The slumbering God was holding her, holding tight. She wanted to struggle but had neither the passion nor the energy to fight back. Everything around her began felt far away and shaky, as if it was a massive puzzle that was about to be ripped apart.
A mistake had been made, were the only clear thoughts in her mind. But she couldn’t remember what mistake it was. What was happening? What was happening to her? Her? Who was she? She fought to find a name, an inkling of who she was and why she was alive. But nothing came.
Nothing.
The arms of the Sleeper began to squeeze more and more, keeping the woman as close to him as possible. And the very last thing that the woman saw was the eyes of the waking God opening. His eyes were light blue.
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