My name is Tamara.
And I don't sleep anymore.
I can't—not because I don't want to, but because I'm terrified of what's waiting for me behind my eyelids.
For as long as I can remember, I've had a nightmare that feels like it belongs to me, as if I've inherited it.
Night after night, I find myself in a twisted version of my city. The same streets. The same buildings. But wrong—horribly wrong.
The sky is always painted with a bruised shade of purple, the air thick with smoke and something metallic that burns my nose.
Shadows writhe against the walls, and no matter where I go, I hear it: the creature.
It doesn't have a name. Maybe it doesn't need one.
I never see it clearly—it's always in the corners, behind the next street,sometimes too close, sometimes too far.
Sometimes I hear its nails scraping against the pavement, dragging, long and slow, as if savoring the chase.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of its limbs, stretched too far, bending the wrong way, dripping something that smells like rot.
In that world, I am always hiding.
Always running.
Always afraid.
And when I wake up, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering like it's trying to claw out of my chest, I tell myself: it's just a nightmare, Tamara. Just a nightmare.
But nightmares aren't supposed to follow you when you're awake.
********
I
It was Monday morning when the first crack appeared in my so-called real world.
I woke up to my alarm, the soft jingle of a pop song on my phone. My room looked normal. Posters on the wall. My desk messy with books. The soft hum of the city outside my window.
For a moment, I relaxed.
Then I saw it.
A smear of black on my ceiling. A shadow that pulsed as if it were alive. I blinked—and it was gone.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just my imaginations.
I got up, showered, dressed, went downstairs where Mom was making breakfast.
She smiled, handed me toast, and asked about my night.
I lied, as always, because how could I tell her? She'd just laugh and say, "It's just a nightmare, sweetheart."
But as I bit into the toast, my mouth filled with something cold and metallic.
I gagged, spit it out.
It wasn't bread.
It was a chunk of raw flesh, bloody and dripping, squirming as though alive.
I screamed—dropping it to the floor—only to blink and see it was just toast again.
Perfectly golden. Perfectly normal.
Mom frowned. "What's wrong?"
I stared at her, too scared to answer.
********
II
The cracks spread.
At school, I saw buildings flicker—just for a second—like static on a screen.
One moment, clean brick and glass. The next, blackened, charred, broken. Windows shattered, graffiti carved into the stone.
My classmates smiled and talked like nothing was wrong. Teachers droned on. Laughter echoed in the hallways.
But sometimes their faces blurred. Their eyes sank too deep into their skulls. Their mouths stretched too wide. Their teeth were too sharp.
And then, in the blink of an eye, they were normal again.
I thought I was losing my mind.
******
III
That night, I dreamed again.
The nightmare city welcomed me back like a cruel friend. Streets broken, littered with bones. Cars overturned. Buildings hollowed, bleeding black smoke.
And the sound.
That scraping. That slow, dragging nails.
The creature was close.
I ran. My lungs burned. My legs ached.
I ducked behind a dumpster that oozed with maggots and blood. I pressed my hand against my mouth to silence my breathing.
And then, from the corner of my eye—I saw it.
Tall- No, too tall. Its body stretched like melted wax, limbs bending in impossible angles. Its head tilted, cocking, listening.
I couldn't see its face, only the suggestion of holes where eyes should be.
It sniffed the air.
It knew I was there.
I woke up screaming, clawing at my sheets, convinced it had followed me back.
*********
IV
I told myself again and again: this isn't real, this isn't real.
But the more I tried to cling to my world, the more it bled into the nightmare.
One afternoon, I saw the creature outside my window. Not in my dreams—outside.
Standing across the street, its form flickering in and out of existence.
People walked past it, oblivious, like it wasn't there. Like I was the only one who could see it.
Its head turned toward me.
And for the first time, I heard it whisper my name.
*********
V
I confronted Mom.
"What's happening to me?" I shouted. My voice cracked, desperate. "Why do I keep seeing these things? Why does everything look wrong?"
Mom froze. Her smile faltered. For a moment—just a moment—her face melted, flesh dripping like wax, revealing hollow sockets where her eyes should be.
Then she was normal again.
"You're just tired, Tamara," she said softly. "You need rest."
But her voice wasn't right. It was too flat. It doesn't sound human.
And when I hugged her, she felt cold.
*******
VI
The nightmare city became harder to escape.
Every time I closed my eyes, I woke up there.
Days bled into nights. Time felt wrong. My memories slipped like sand through my fingers.
And then, one night—I didn't wake up at all.
I walked the streets, trembling, clutching my chest. I whispered to myself: this is just another damn dream, I'll wake up, I'll wake up, I'll wake up.
But I didn't.
I wandered past corpses strung up like puppets on streetlights. Their skin peeled, their eyes gouged out.
I recognized some of their faces. My classmates. My neighbors.
My hands shook. My breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't just a dream.
This….this was real.
********
VII
The illusion shattered the next morning.
I opened my eyes expecting sunlight, birdsong, Mom's voice.
Instead, I woke up on a blood-soaked mattress in a ruined building.
My body ached. My clothes were torn.
The "bedroom" I thought I had?
Gone.
The posters, the books, the desk—all rotted, mold-covered, broken.
The walls dripped with something black.
Rats scurried over bones in the corner.
And outside the window—was the nightmare city.
The bruised sky. The ash in the air. The endless scraping of the creature.
My real world.
I had never left.
The life I thought I had—the school, the friends, the family—was nothing but a lie stitched into my head.
A cruel illusion.
And now, it was gone.
********
VIII
I tried to fight it.
I told myself: No. My life was real. Mom was real. School was real. I am real.
But the city whispered back: Liar.
I wandered for days. Hunger gnawed at me.
My lips cracked from thirst. I searched for other survivors, but the only people I found were corpses—or worse.
Some moved, twitching, jerking, their faces sewn shut, their bodies twisted into grotesque forms.
They chased me through alleys, howling like animals. I barely escaped, ducking into ruined buildings, hiding in shadows.
Every time I thought I was safe, I heard it.
The creature.
Always scraping. Always watching.
******
IX
One night, I stumbled across a mirror in a collapsed store. My reflection stared back at me.
But it wasn't me.
My skin was pale, cracked. My eyes hollow.
My mouth stretched wider than it should.
And then the reflection smiled—though I hadn't.
"You were never alive, Tamara," it whispered. "You were never real. Just another puppet. Just another dream."
I smashed the mirror.
But the words stayed.
***********
X
I don't know how long it's been. Days?Weeks? Time doesn't work here.
Sometimes I hear voices—Mom, my friends, calling to me. Telling me to wake up. Telling me to come back.
But when I follow the voices, I only find corpses.
Or the creature.
It waits for me. It always waits.
And sometimes, I wonder—was it the one feeding me the illusion all along? Did it let me believe in a happy life, just so it could tear it away?
Maybe.
Maybe it enjoys watching me suffer.
******
XI
Last night, I stopped running.
I walked into the center of the city, where the air burned like fire and the ground was slick with blood.
The creature was there. Waiting. Its limbs twitched.
Its head tilted. Holes where its eyes should be burned into me.
And I asked it: "Why me?"
It didn't answer.
It only smiled.
*******
XII
I am still here.
I don't know if anyone will ever read this.
I don't know if there are others like me, trapped in illusions, living false lives while the real world rots.
But if you are reading this, if you've ever woken up from a nightmare that felt too real, if you've ever seen something flicker in the corner of your eye—be afraid.
Because maybe your life isn't real either.
Maybe you're just another Tamara.
Maybe you're still dreaming.
And when you finally wake up…
You'll find yourself here.
With me.
And with it.
Stream Commentary; Tape #48. "Tamara's Nightmare"
The screen flickers alive, its dim glow stretching into the void. Kai leans forward in his chair, one hand resting beneath his chin, the lenses of his black goggle catching the faint blue light. The silence hums heavy before he exhales softly, like someone who has just closed a book dripping with too many questions.
"So… was it reality, or illusion? Was it a prison of flesh, or a prison of mind? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Tell me, my dear followers… what do you think?"
[@Ovesix: I say it was illusion. Think about it—every fracture in the story bent perception, not physics. Doors melting, voices overlapping, the way truth bled into dream. Illusion is the cruelest cage, because it convinces you you're free. If I were there, I'd close my eyes, stop trusting sight, and start listening to instinct. Reality… would whisper if you let it]
[@Jaija: Oh no, no, no, no! It was real. All of it. The screams, the touches, the whispers crawling against the spine—real. Just because it feels unreal doesn't make it fake. Nightmares don't care about your logic, they care about your fear.
If it were me in that scenario….I'd laugh! Run headfirst into the chaos, pop the illusion like a balloon. If you're doomed, why not dance with the nightmare before it eats you?]
[@642: You're both wrong. Reality and illusion… they're the same coin, two sides always touching. The pain was real. The confusion was real. Whether it was in the mind or in the world—doesn't matter. Suffering makes it real.
If I were trapped there, I'd tear everything apart—walls, faces, even myself—until the truth bled out. Better to rip through madness than sit quiet and rot in someone else's illusion HAHAHA!!]
[@Enchomay: …I believe it was neither reality nor illusion, but reflection. The house was a mirror. What it showed them was themselves—their fears, their guilt, their hunger. That is why no door truly opened, and no escape truly came.
If I were inside?.…I would do nothing. Accept it. Because fighting shadows is endless. But accepting them? That… perhaps, is the only freedom]
(Kai lets the silence hang, the faint clink of glass echoing as he takes a drink before speaking)
"Reality versus illusion. You're all circling the same flame, like moths pretending they're philosophers.
Does it matter whether the knife was real if you felt it slice?
Does it matter if the prison was built from stone or thought, if your spirit broke the same way?
What I would do in that scenario, hmm?
Simple.
I'd sit. I'd wait. If it's real, it'll kill me. If it's illusion, it'll fade.
And if it's both… then patience itself is my only weapon.
Humans, though—they never wait. They claw, they fight, they panic. That's why traps like this devour them. Because illusion or not, humans destroy themselves before anything else gets the chance."
(He chuckles softly, the sound heavy with irony)
"So you see, dear viewers, reality and illusion are just masks.
What matters is the heart behind them.
Do you surrender to fear?
Do you let doubt eat you alive?
Or do you cling so desperately to 'truth' that you carve your own cage?
Moral of this story? Beware of the prisons you build inside your head. They last longer than any wall, and they bleed you drier than any knife".
"And my warning to you reader?
When you cannot tell the difference between dream and reality… don't be so certain you'd survive either.
Most of you wouldn't."
(He leans closer to the lens, grinning)
"The next tale awaits. One where reality and illusion whisper together.
One where even the dead… have a voice.
The next story is called—"
(he whispers the title like a curse )
"Listen, the Death is Speaking."
STREAM ENDS