The Man Who Couldn't Dream

He couldn't dream.

He could dream per se, day-dream about his job, his future life, his girlfriend, and all that but ever since his crash he was unable to dream in his sleep. And that to him, it was as if someone had cut off a vital part of him. Before the fateful night of the car crash, almost two years ago, he had a very active dream-life. Monsters leapt out from unknown places, people whom he had met only once would come into his dreams and play havoc.

But all that was missing now. No more going to bed and waking up in a strange wondrous land, beyond his wildest imagination. He had tried everything. From holy men who had been sitting in a lotus position for the last twenty years, to herbs that promised to renew his dreams, to weird postures during sleeping, he had tried it all. But none of them worked. Something was missing inside him and he couldn't get it back.

Dejected, he turned to drinking. Day after day, bottle after bottle, he tried to drown himself. One day, he was out drinking at his favorite haunt just outside the city, which eerily smelled just like his old house. He was at his fourth bottle, when a strange man approached him.

"I believe you have been looking for a cure for your problem."

The stranger had a kind of an aura around him, more attenuated by the white clothes the stranger wore. Stung both by the stranger's sudden appearance and the bottles he had downed, he wordlessly watched as the stranger down on the opposite seat.

Grappling for a minute, he tried to find the words. "No one can cure me! No one! Leave me alone."

"I can."

The stranger simply leaned forward and touched him on the forehead with his index finger. A strange feeling emitted from that focal point in his body and spread all over. His fingers tingled and he fainted.

When he came around, the stranger was gone. Flinging a wad of notes onto the table, he walked over to his car, deep in thought. He tried to find words to express what was going on inside him, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't.
That night, he dreamt.

For the first time in two years, he finally dreamt.

The dream was a weird one. He was on a white bed, and white walls, lying there as if asleep. He tried to move his arm, but all he could move was a finger, barely lifting it.

"This particular patient," he said, pointing to bed, behind him ", has been in our care for the last two years. He suffered a near-fatal accident that reduced him to a comatose state, with a GCS of one. I wan-", the doctor was cut short as one of interns yelled, "His finger! It's moving!"

The senior doctor, annoyed at this intrusion, turned around to see just in time to see the finger move. In the commotion that followed, no one saw the man dressed in white leave.