“I measure every grief I meet with analytic eyes; I wonder if it weighs like mine, Or has an easier size.” - I Measure Every Grief, Emily Dickens
I rub the sleep from my eyes and try to figure out if all the eyes staring at me are coming from the posters on my ceiling or if I’m still dreaming. I hope I’m awake. The dream I was having is not one I want to live in. I dreamt about Jamie but this wasn’t one of those fantastic dreams where we’re running through some flower field in slow motion. It was a nightmare.
We were standing in a tiny room; well, it was more like a closet with no windows or doors just four alabaster walls and a ceiling so low that Jamie had to hunch over so his head wouldn’t smash through it. The room was musty and smelled like mothballs and dirt. I couldn’t breathe and I began to panic. Jamie just stood there, staring right through me like he wasn’t even really there, as if his body were just a shell. I tried to get him back, to snap his soul back into his body. I shook him, screamed at him, “Jamie! Jamie! Talk to me. Jamie, come back to me!” Nothing worked, every time I tried to get him back the walls would slide closer and closer together. I knew that the room was going to crush us if we didn’t get out but there was nowhere to go. There was nothing but wall. I threw my weight onto the wall closest to us and pushed with everything I had to try to get it to stop moving but nothing I did worked.
My feet began to slip from under me and when I looked up again Jamie was gone. I panicked and screamed for him but my screams seemed to move the walls closer to me more quickly. As darkness consumed me I screamed one final time for Jamie.