The Weight of Dreams

I woke up gasping, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal. For a terrible moment, I didn't know where I was. The galaxy lamp was still spinning its slow rotation of false stars, but the shadows between them seemed deeper now, hungrier, like they were waiting for the light to die so they could swallow everything whole.

I sat up so fast that Rory, who had been sleeping on my chest, went tumbling across the bed with an indignant yelp.

"César? What the—"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My hands were already fumbling through the drawer of the nightstand, throwing aside old receipts, dead batteries, loose change. Where were they? Where were the damn pills?

"Tamamo!" Rory's voice was sharp now, fully awake. "Something's wrong!"

"Pills," I managed. "The pills. Where are the pills?"

"Pills?" Rory's voice, still groggy from sleep. "What are you talking about? You said you didn't want to take—"

"I don't care what I said. Where are they?"

I found them in the back of the drawer, behind a tangle of old phone chargers and a half-empty box of bandages. The orange prescription bottle looked almost accusing, its white cap screwed on tight. My fingers fumbled with it, slipped, tried again.

"César—" Tamamo began.

The cap came off. I shook out a handful of pills—three, four, five—and stared at them in my palm. They looked so small. So harmless. They weren't. I knew they weren't. But right now, anything was better than the feeling of my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. I just needed them to work. I needed the world to stop spinning. I needed to stop feeling like I was dying.

I swallowed them dry.

Silence.

I stood there, bent over the bathroom sink, my hands gripping the edges of the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping me from falling into the void. The pills were already dissolving in my stomach. The trembling didn't stop. The panic didn't stop. But at least now—at least now—I had done something. I had taken action. I had fought back.

"César..."

Rory's voice was small now. Not angry. Not demanding. Just... small.

I looked up at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me—a woman with blue hair disheveled from sleep, golden eyes wide with terror, fox ears flattened against her skull, tears streaming down her cheeks. A stranger. A stranger who was me. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the feeling that the world was ending, that the walls were closing in, that something terrible was about to happen and I couldn't stop it.

And slowly, very slowly, the words started to come out.

"It was a dream."

I said it to the mirror, to Rory, to Tamamo, to whoever was listening.

"A nightmare. The worst I've ever had."

The tea was warm in my hands. Tamamo had made it—some herbal blend she'd found in the back of the cabinet, something she said would help calm the nerves. I didn't know if it would work. I didn't know if anything would work anymore.

Rory was sitting on the kitchen table, her halberd within reach, her red eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made me feel both exposed and protected. She hadn't left my side since the bathroom. Neither had Tamamo.

"What was it about?" Rory asked. Her voice was softer than usual. No sarcasm. No jokes. Just... concern.

I took a breath. The words felt like broken glass in my throat.

"It was... an apocalypse. A zombie apocalypse. But not normal zombies. These ones... these ones were different."

"Different how?"

"They started as normal infected people. But then they'd... mutate. Over time, their bodies would change, become more and more liquid. Like slimes." I paused, my hands tightening around the mug. "And then, at the final stage of their mutation, they'd run. Run as fast as they could. And then... they'd explode."

"Explode?" Tamamo's voice was quiet.

"Into orange slime. Infectious orange slime. If the slime touched you—if even a drop got on your skin—you'd be infected too. You'd become one of them. And then you'd start the same process. Slowly at first. You might not even know you were infected for hours. But then... someone would spill water on you. Or you'd get caught in the rain. And the process would accelerate. And then you'd run. And then you'd explode. And then you'd infect someone else. And they'd start the process. And then—"

"César." Rory's voice cut through my spiral. "Breathe. You're not there. You're here. In the apartment. With us."

I nodded, but the words kept coming.

"The dream... in the dream, I was at my parents' house. My old house. There was a party. Lots of people. Family, neighbors, people I didn't recognize. And then the first one exploded. And then another. And then everyone started accusing each other. 'You're infected!' 'No, YOU'RE infected!' Everyone was screaming. Everyone was paranoid. And I was just... standing there. Watching. Useless."

"And then?"

"And then..." My voice cracked. "And then I got infected too."

The silence that followed was absolute.

"I didn't even know how it happened. Maybe someone splashed water on me. Maybe I was too close to one of the explosions. It doesn't matter. The point is... I was infected. And I knew it. I could feel it. My body was changing. Becoming liquid. Becoming... what I am now."

I looked down at my hands—soft, feminine, capable of becoming liquid if I wanted them to.

"In the dream, I was terrified. Not of being a slime. That wasn't the scary part. The scary part was... dying. Losing control. Becoming a monster that would hurt everyone I loved." I paused. "Becoming a bomb that would take Rory and Tamamo with me."

Rory flinched.

"I tried to get away. To isolate myself. To protect them. But they wouldn't leave me. They stayed with me, even as I changed, even as I became a monster." My voice dropped to a whisper. "And then... I ran. In the final stage, I ran. I couldn't stop myself. My body was moving on its own. And then I..."

"You exploded," Tamamo finished quietly.

I nodded.

"And then what?" Rory asked.

"That was the worst part." I closed my eyes. "After the explosion... I saw them. Rory and Tamamo. They were going to the sky. To heaven. Or whatever comes after. Their souls were leaving. And they were... happy. At peace. They were together. And I..."

I opened my eyes.

"I was left behind. Alone. In the darkness. Watching them leave without me. They didn't even look back."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Rory was very still.

And then, very slowly, she stood up.

"Listen to me," she said, her voice fierce, though there was something in her eyes that wasn't anger. "Listen to me carefully, idiot."

I looked at her.

"That was a dream. A stupid dream"
"A stupid dream created by your stupid brain"
"It wasn't real. And even if it were real—even if the world were overrun by orange slime zombies and everything went to hell—I wouldn't go to heaven without you. Do you understand? I wouldn't."

"But in the dream—"

"The dream is a lie." She cut me off. "Dreams are lies our brains make up to torture us. And your brain is especially good at that because it's been torturing you for years. But I'm not a lie. I'm here. Tamamo is here. And we're not going to some damn heaven without you."

Tamamo had approached as well, climbing up my arm until she reached my shoulder. Her tiny hand rested against my neck, right where my pulse was still beating hard.

"Rory is right," she said softly. "We wouldn't abandon you. Not in death. Not even after it. We've already proven that, haven't we? You died. You were gone. And here you are, with us."

"That was different..."

"Different how?" Rory asked. "You died. You left. And I brought you back. Do you really think I wouldn't do it again? Do you think there is any version of reality where I would leave you behind?"

I didn't answer. The tears finally overflowed, rolling down my cheeks. They were slime tears, slightly bluish, but they were tears nonetheless.

"I'm scared," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm so scared..."

Rory snuggled against my cheek, her small body warm and solid.

"I know," she said.
"You're scared of dying," she said. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Not the zombies. Not the slime. Not even the explosion. You're scared of dying and being left behind."

I stared at her. The words hit like a punch to the chest.

"Yes," I admitted. "I'm terrified."

"Good," she said.

I blinked. "Good?"

"Good," she repeated. "It means you want to live. It means you have something to live for. A few months ago, you would have welcomed death. You would have been the one running toward the explosion, not away from it."

I stared at her. She was right. God, she was right.

"Now you're scared," she continued. "Scared of losing this. Scared of losing us. Scared of being alone again. That's not weakness, César. That's... that's growth. That's progress. That's proof that you have something worth living for."

"You're not going to die alone," Tamamo added. "You're not going to be left behind"
"It's a promise. And we're goddesses. We keep our promises."

"I can't sleep," I admitted. "I don't want to sleep. What if I have another dream like that? What if I see something worse?"

Rory and Tamamo exchanged a glance.

"Then we stay awake with you," Rory said simply. "All night. Every night. Until you feel safe enough to try again."

"You can't do that. You need rest too."

"I'm a goddess. Sleep is optional."

"And I've lived for millions of years," Tamamo added with a small smile. "A few sleepless nights won't harm me."

"That's the problem," I whispered. "I don't know if I can sleep again. I don't know if I can close my eyes without seeing them explode. Without seeing you leave. Without being left behind."

Rory and Tamamo exchanged a glance.

Then Rory, with that look she got when she was about to do something I wouldn't like, crossed her arms.

"Then we don't sleep."

I blinked. "What?"

"Tonight. Or for as long as it takes. We don't sleep." She shrugged. "We stay up. We watch movies. We play games. We do whatever it takes to keep your mind off the nightmares."

"César, with all due respect, that's not sustainable—"

"I don't care if it's sustainable." Rory's voice was fierce. "If he's afraid to sleep, then we don't sleep. Period. We'll figure out the rest later."

"And when he collapses from exhaustion?" Tamamo asked gently.

"Then we'll be there to catch him when he falls." Rory met my eyes. "I won't let you face this alone. Neither of us will. If you're scared to close your eyes, then we'll keep them open with you. Understood?"

My throat tightened.

"But you need to rest too."

"We're goddesses." Rory waved her hand dismissively. "We don't need sleep. We just like it." She paused. "Okay, I really like it. But I'll survive. And so will Tamamo. She's millions of years old, remember? She probably doesn't even know what sleep is."

"I know what sleep is," Tamamo said dryly. "I just don't need it as often."

"See? Perfect. Neither do I. So we'll stay up with you. As long as it takes. Until the nightmares go away."

I looked at them—Rory with her fierce determination, Tamamo with her quiet strength—and I felt something shift in my chest.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't thank us yet," Rory said. "You're going to be sick of us by the time this is over."

"Never," I said.

I wanted to argue. But the truth was, I didn't want to be alone. The thought of closing my eyes and seeing those images again was unbearable.

The days that followed were... difficult.

I started to hate the darkness.

In the literal sense of “darkness reminds me of death.” Every night, when the sun went down and the shadows grew longer, I felt something in my chest tighten. I needed light. Warm, constant light that didn’t flicker.

I bought a new lamp, a necessary expense for survival, and placed it beside the others. I turned them all on together at dusk and didn’t turn them off until dawn.

I also started to hate the cold.

I couldn’t stand it. The cold meant death. It meant being left behind. It meant being alone. So I wrapped myself in blankets. My blanket, the old pink and blue fleece blanket I’d had since college, became my shield. I carried it everywhere: to the couch, the kitchen, the bathroom.

Rory teased me a little about it.

“You look like a human burrito,” she would tell me. “But a cute burrito. With fox ears.”

But then she would want me to share it with her, too.

I knew the room itself wasn’t cold. The thermometer could say it was warm, the sun could be shining brightly outside, and yet my body felt like it was standing on the verge of freezing water.

Tamamo brought me tea. Hot tea, always. She seemed to know exactly when I needed it, sometimes even before I did.

Now I was recycling the tea bags, using each one several times.

My appetite for now has been reduced to zero.

But the worst part was the fear.

The constant, permanent fear that had settled in my chest like an unwanted tenant. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the party again. I saw the zombies exploding. I saw myself falling behind, alone, while Rory and Tamamo ascended into the sky without me.

So I didn’t sleep.

Rory made good on her promise. She refused to let me sit alone with my thoughts. She demanded we watch action movies—the loudest, most explosive ones she could find. She criticized every fight scene, every car chase, every unrealistic explosion. "That's not how fire works," she'd mutter, throwing popcorn at the screen. "And that guy would have broken his neck three times by now."

Tamamo made tea. And more tea. And then some more. Each cup was a different blend, a different flavor, a different attempt to soothe. "This one helps with anxiety," she'd say. "This one helps with fear. This one helps with nightmares."

"Do any of them actually work?" I asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But the ritual helps. The warmth. The act of drinking something slowly. It grounds you in the present."

She was right. There was something comforting about the simple act of holding a warm cup, of feeling the steam on my face, of tasting something that wasn't the bitter remnants of pills that now I take like four times a day, along with a relaxing pills.

I only tried to when the exhaustion became unbearable after so many hours awake, when I was on the verge of passing out. I slept as little as possible, just enough to make sure I couldn’t dream.

So I stayed awake.

Rory and Tamamo stayed awake with me, true to their word. They took turns sitting with me, talking about nothing and everything, filling the silence with their voices so I didn't have to think too much.

But the anxiety was always there. A constant hum under my skin. A tightness in my chest that never went away.

And when I wasn’t dreaming, I was awake.

And when I was awake, I thought.

I thought too much.

I thought about death. My death. Their deaths. What would happen if I died first. What would happen if they died first. What would happen if the world ended and I survived. What would happen if the world ended and I didn’t?

I couldn't stop thinking about death whenever I was left alone or had nothing to occupy my mind. It was as if my mind were a mechanism that needed to remain constantly occupied, constantly distracted, because whenever it stopped, it turned inward, and what it found there was unbearable. So, these days, I spent most of my time playing all sorts of games on my handheld console. I did the math and realized I could afford to buy a couple of new games. This time, it didn't hurt. I looked at it almost as if I were buying medical supplies.

I thought about the past. About the good moments, the few good moments I had experienced, and I was overcome by such deep nostalgia that it made me cry. Tears that came without permission, without warning, at three in the morning while I stared at the ceiling.

I thought about the future. A future I couldn’t imagine. A future that terrified me.

What was the point of trying if I was going to die anyway? What was the point of loving if I would die alone in the end? What was the point of living if the ending was always the same?

And fear became anxiety, and anxiety became trembling, and trembling became tears, and tears became exhaustion, and exhaustion became insomnia, and insomnia brought me right back to the beginning of the cycle.

I couldn’t write.

Every time I opened my novel’s document, the cursor blinked like an accusing eye. The words wouldn’t come. The ideas slipped through my fingers like water.

And if I tried to concentrate, if I forced myself to think about the story, the fear came back.

The fear of death.

The fear of abandonment.

The fear of nothingness.

So I closed the document and sat there, staring at the black screen.

So instead of writing, I did something else: I created images.

I spent hours in front of the computer, but not writing. Instead, I generated illustrations of important moments from my novel. Battle scenes. Character portraits. Landscapes from the world I had created. I inserted them into the document between the chapters, as if they were windows into a world I could no longer inhabit through words.

It was a poor substitute. I knew that. But it was the only thing I could do.

Nostalgia came without warning.

I was in the kitchen, looking for another cup of tea, when suddenly I saw something that made me stop. A cookie. A simple vanilla cookie, the kind that comes in those cheap packages. My mother used to buy them when I was a child. She would break them in half and give me the larger piece.

And suddenly, without warning, I was crying.

It wasn't a gentle cry. It was a deep, heart-wrenching sob, coming from a place I didn't even know existed. I remembered the kitchen of my childhood. I remembered the smell of coffee. I remembered my mother's voice, before things became complicated, before my desire to be a girl became a sin that had to be beaten out of me.

I remembered birthdays. Christmas parties. Sunday mornings. Moments that would never come back. Moments that perhaps had never been as good as I remembered them, but that nostalgia had painted in gold and light.

Rory found me like that: sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching a package of cookies, crying like a child.

The tears came at unexpected moments. I'd be sitting on the sofa, wrapped in my blanket, and suddenly I'd remember something—a summer day from my childhood, before everything went wrong; a moment of happiness so small I'd forgotten it existed—and I'd start crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs. Just quiet tears that wouldn't stop.

Rory would sit beside me, her tiny hand on my arm. Tamamo would bring tea. Neither of them told me to stop. Neither of them told me it would be okay. They just... stayed.

The worst part was the fear. It was always there, lurking at the edges of my consciousness. Fear of the future. Fear of what came next. Fear that I'd never be able to sleep again. Fear that I'd never be able to write again. Fear that this was my life now—a constant struggle against a panic that never fully went away.

"I'm scared," I admitted on the third night. We were sitting in the living room, the galaxy lamp casting its soft glow across the walls. "I'm scared all the time."

"Of what?" Rory asked.

"Everything. The future. The past. The present. Dying again. Losing you. Losing Tamamo. Losing Mizuki. Going back to being alone. Being stuck like this forever. Not being able to write. Not being able to sleep. Everything."

Rory was quiet for a moment. Then she climbed onto my lap and looked up at me.

"That's a lot of fear," she said.

"I know."

"And it's not going to go away overnight."

"I know."

"But it's not going to last forever either." Her red eyes met mine. "You've survived worse than this. You survived being alone for ten years. You survived losing your job. You survived losing your scholarship. You survived dying. You're still here. That counts for something."

I looked at her. At her twelve centimeters of divine stubbornness. At her gothic dress and her halberd and her fierce, unwavering love.

"I don't feel strong," I said. "I feel like I'm falling apart."

"Then fall apart," she said simply. "We'll catch you. We'll put you back together. As many times as it takes."

Tamamo appeared beside us, carrying a fresh cup of tea. She set it down on the table and sat beside Rory.

"The body heals slowly," she said. "The mind heals more slowly still. But it does heal, César. With time. With rest. With the support of those who love you."

"And you have us," Rory added. "You have Mizuki. You have this weird little family we've built. You're not alone."

I wanted to believe them. I really did. But the fear was so loud, so constant, so overwhelming. It was like trying to hear a whisper in the middle of a storm.

One morning, Rory found me staring out the window. The city stretched out before me—indifferent, noisy, alive. People came and went, caught up in their own routines, unaware of my existence.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, climbing onto my shoulder.

"Bad stuff," I replied.

"Oh..."
"But you don't have to think about it all the time." She paused.
"Do you know what I think about when I look at people?"

"What?"

"That everyone has a story. A story I don't know. Full of happy and sad moments. Of love and loss. And that every story is unique and can never be repeated." Her tiny hand rested against my cheek.
"And that your story, Cesar, is the only one that matters to me."

"I don't want my story to end."

"And it won't. Not while I'm here. Not while Tamamo is here. Not while Mizuki is here." Her voice turned fierce. "Not while we're still able to fight."

"And what if we can't fight?"

"Then we'll hide. We'll run away. We'll cheat. Whatever it takes." She smiled—that crooked smile I knew so well. "I'm the Goddess of War. Cheating is my specialty."