Processing
A Fictional Short Story by Maya Shadid
04/06/2026: “Intro”
Dear Diary,
My name is Christiane Malek. Today is April 6th, 2026, and I am 32 years old. Four months ago, my father passed away from a heart attack. He’d never had a heart attack before, so it was a terrible surprise. For a while, it didn’t feel real, and I know that’s cliché, but it didn’t. I guess that means that my brain was protecting me; it knew I wouldn’t be able to handle the grief all at once. But about a month ago, the protection was lifted. I’ve been having nightmares ever since. I bought you - this - as a sort of dream journal. To process through them, I guess. Not that processing will make me any less sad. I think I’ll be sad for a very long time, if not forever. But hopefully, this will ease the pain somewhat.
I’ve been reading up on dream journaling, and so I’ve found a few rules to adhere to:
Record your dreams immediately upon waking, as this aids in recollection (though I’ve always been good at remembering my dreams).
Always write dreams in the present tense. This puts you in the moment, also aiding in recollection.
Always title your dreams to solidify key motifs. This allows you to pick up dream patterns over time.
Along with a title, ensure that you write the date of your dream, along with whether you achieved lucid dreaming (i.e., when you realize that you’re in a dream). This is important for organization and general bookkeeping.
I’m beginning tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.
Love,
Christiane
04/07/2026: “Flower Field.” NOT lucid
I am sitting criss-cross in a meadow, one that stretches eternally in every direction. Vivid flora spans across the terrain, blades of grass and diverse species of wildflowers, each plant dancing gently in the wind.
Yet despite this wind, the world has a certain stillness to it - no insects, no critters. It’s quiet. Peaceful.
The sun sits at the horizon, painting the earth in magnificent golden hues. It’s all so lovely, except that I’m alone. I have no one to share this with.
“You have me,” a voice booms from far behind me, and I turn to see my father in the distance. It’s him, I’m certain, though I can only really make out the shape of his body. He walks toward me with outstretched arms, his plump figure glowing faintly in the sunlight. A bittersweet feeling swells within me; I’m happy he’s here, but it feels as though I haven’t seen him in forever, and I’m not sure why that is.
“Dad!” I exclaim, running toward him. He picks up his stride as well, and as we approach, I see that he’s beaming. “Daddy!” I shout again, my voice oddly high-pitched. The world expands around me, and suddenly, I’m a little girl again.
But right before he’s able to get to me, his foot gets tangled in the grass, and he falls. “Daddy!” I screech, sprinting now, but my legs have shrunk, and I’m not fast enough.
My father lies face-up, showing no indication of pain. No, he’s calm, perfectly calm. He closes his eyes.
The grass around him becomes alive - conscious. It stretches rapidly upwards, then snakes back down, wrapping around his body. Then, the flowers. They attack his wrists and ankles, restraining him. He doesn’t fight.
I’m trying to get to him, I’m trying so hard, but I’m too slow. “Hang on! I’m coming to save you,” I cry.
“I can’t be saved,” he murmurs, and with that, the plants pull him into the ground, and I’m alone in the meadow once more.
04/09/2026: “Sinking.” NOT lucid
My dad and I are sharks hunting in the ocean. A school of pufferfish swims just below us, and he strikes them. He gnaws on a pufferfish, then grows still - paralyzed. He begins to sink, and I rush toward him. But for some reason, my jaw is open, and as I’m diving to save him, I accidentally eat a pufferfish, too.
04/10/2026: “Shooting Star.” NOT lucid
I am a surgeon in the operating room, and I step up to the procedure table. A person lies there, hidden beneath a drape sheet, muted blue fabric settling into the grooves of their body.
Examining the obscured patient, I approximate their size, observing how the covering lumps at the head, the feet, the waist. Skinny little thing, I think.
When I reach to uncover the figure, the shadow of my hand creeps onto the drape sheet. One, two… six fingers. I draw back, startled, and yet I don’t realize I’m dreaming. Turning my gaze to the ceiling, I notice the jarring, fluorescent bulbs overhead. Neon white beams flood my retinas, and I stumble backward.
“Ouch!” A man bellows from behind me. I’ve bumped into him - stepped on his foot.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face him. Except I can’t exactly “face” him because where his face should be, there’s a layer of smooth, hairless skin. And this skin seems to have grown over his original features; it wrinkles around his ocular region each time he blinks (I say “blinks” lightly, of course, as I can only assume that’s what he’s doing).
“Who are you?” I ask, squinting in deep concentration as I observe his naked countenance.
“Dr. Malek, you know me,” he says in a muffled voice, skin stretching around his mouth as he speaks. “It’s Kareem. Your head surgical technician.”
“Right, right. Of course. Kareem.” I nod, suddenly feeling as though I’ve known this man my entire life.
There are four other technicians standing abreast beside him (though I swear they weren’t there before), utterly still. Their scrubs are midnight-navy, like the night sky, and I see a shooting star dash across the left-most’s chest. I blink, and the star is gone.
“It’s time to begin, Doctor,” Kareem states, stepping out of line and guiding me back to the operating table. The other techs follow behind, circling around the table, and though they have no eyes, I can feel them staring at me. Rude.
“Hey!” I scold. “Cut that out!” They keep staring regardless, and I get the feeling that they’ve misinterpreted me, because Kareem (who is standing to my right) hands me a scalpel.
“Cut away,” he nods.
I look down at the person on the table, and I realize that I must remove their covering. My shadow-hands paint darkness upon the drape sheet once more, and in a swift gesture, I uncover the patient.
It’s a man. A man with a face. A face I recognize.
“Dad?” I whisper.
“He can’t hear you. He’s under anesthetic,” Kareem states plainly, and for the first time, I notice the steady beeping of my father’s vital-signs machine.
“I,” my voice breaks, “I don’t understand.” I blink at my dad’s sleeping body. The drape sheet lies just below his sternum so that his body’s only visible from there up. Salt-and-pepper hairs ornament his frail chest, curling into thin spirals.
“Doctor, it’s time,” Kareem encourages, gesturing to the scalpel in my grasp. My hand trembles vigorously.
“But I don’t know what to do,” I whimper, looking to the other faceless techs for support. They only stare. “Kareem!” I plead, louder now. “I don’t know what to do! Help me save him,” I cry out, my breathing ragged.
“He needs heart surgery. There’s not much time,” Kareem says with a quiet solemnness. The vital-signs machine is beeping faster, and faster, and fuck, fuck, he’s dying. My dad is dying.
“Help me, please! Please, help me save him!” I sob, hot droplets pouring down my face, burning my flesh. I look back at my scalpel, and in its reflection, I see myself. My tears are shooting stars.
“Help me!” I howl, whipping my head back to Kareem, but when I see him, I only cry harder. He has a face now. Mine.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!” his voice screeches, distorted, but he looks exactly like me. The vital-signs machine beeps. Faster, faster, faster.
“Heeeeelp! HEEEEELP!” the other techs below in unison, except they’re all me, they’re all me, and the machine is beeping. Faster, faster, faster, faster.
“God, fuck it!” I wail, dragging the scalpel against my father’s chest,
Beeping faster.
“HEEEEEELP,” they cry.
Beeping faster.
“HELP!” they shout.
Beeping…
“HELP ME!” My father’s eyes burst open as he pleads with the chorus.
But in an instant, he’s asleep again.
No. Not asleep.
No more beeping.
I couldn’t save him.
04/13/2026: “Tiny Sun.” NOT lucid.
I am a human in a small, murky room, sitting in a rocking chair. In my lap lies a candle, its faint glow serving as my sole light source. Near its ashy wick, wax pools - a viscous indigo sea.
In the beginning, the flame is strong. Hot. Powerful. A tiny sun, and it's just for me. Its copper rays bring dimension to the room, creating shadows and illuminating their sources. Beautiful.
But the sun must set, and this flame, once mighty, begins to sputter.
In this somber room that is my world, the light is all I have. I must prevent it from extinguishing. I must.
I fix my lips into a small “ O,” creating a gentle gust of oxygen - fuel for the fire.
But it’s too much for the little light, which fades into nothingness, leaving me in the dark.
04/14/2026: “Living Purple and Fleeting Moments.” LUCID!
I am standing at the doorstep of my childhood home. The house is quaint, a charming one-story made of faded auburn brick, just like I remember.
But the door. It’s supposed to be brown, I note in perplexity. Instead, it is a deep purple. Not painted purple; it is purple, a living purple, a universe contained in an eighty-by-thirty rectangle.
I grew up here, walked through this door innumerable times, and never once has it been alive. This isn’t right, I realize. I’m dreaming. And now, I’m lucid, and I’m proud of this because I’ve faced such absurdities in my sleep, never once questioning their validity. I’m free from the haze.
I walk straight through the door, not bothering to open it, and it dematerializes around my body. Violet particles catch in my hair. Cling to my body. “Get off of me,” I command, and they float into oblivion, leaving me spotless.
Inside, the house appears perfectly ordinary: a short hallway opening to the main living space, which can be bisected into two halves. In the first half, there are two beaten-up couches arranged around a television, as well as a second hallway (perpendicular to the first).
In the second half, there is a small kitchen, and my mother is unloading the dishwasher. “You don’t have to do that,” I say, approaching her, and she jumps a bit. She hadn’t noticed me yet.
“Oh, Christiane,” she mutters, clutching her chest with her free hand (and holding a plate in the other). “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Mom,” I gently coo, stepping up to her and taking the plate from her grasp. “No need to do the dishes. We’re in a dream.”
She blinks at me, then giggles. “Don’t be silly, Hon.” Mother stretches out her hand, palm-up. “Now give me back my plate, and let me finish.”
“But-”
“Chris-ti-ane,” she says in her scary mom-voice, pronouncing each syllable of my name.
Frustration bubbles within me, but I remind myself that she isn’t real. “Alright, alright.” I concede, handing her the plate. She nods in satisfaction, resuming her kitchen duties, and I leave her there.
I walk into the second hallway, which leads to two bedrooms and one bath. The first bedroom is mine, and I step up to the door (which is perfectly normal and not at all purple). But as I place my palm on the cool metal handle, I hear something that makes me hesitate.
There is music coming from the second bedroom - the master room. It’s quiet, so quiet that I hadn’t noticed it before: the soft strumming of a string instrument.
The sound is entrancing, a minor-chord melody beckoning me to follow. I release my grip on the door handle and step toward the other room. The door (also normal) is cracked, and I fix my gaze on it with great intensity. “Go away,” I whisper, and it vanishes, allowing the music to sound at full volume.
The master bedroom is dim and cold, not at all how I remember. The bed is gone, along with all the furniture, except for a single wooden rocking chair. It’s fixed in the center of the room, and there he sits.
He’s holding a rosewood oud, plucking its strings with profound focus - so much so that he doesn’t see me. As he plays, droplets of light float from his fingertips, like fire-flies coated in magma, and they circle around him.
He strums two A-chords in a row, and the glowing beads swirl around his chest. Then, he strikes two D-chords, and the lights jump up to his neck, though their orbits do not falter. Two A-chords again - the lights dip. A G-chord - they sink to his calves. Up for higher pitches, down for low ones.
I want to tell him how beautiful he plays, and how much I’ve missed his music. I want to run into his arms and hug him again - press my ear against his chest and hear a pulse. I want to tell him that I love him, that I wish this was more than a dream, that I miss him so much - so much that it consumes me. I want him to hold me as I weep, tell me everything will be okay. And more than anything, I want to find a way - any way - to take him with me when I awake.
But I know that nothing I do will change the fact that he’s dead. All I can do is enjoy this fleeting moment with his memory.
So I stay silent, and I watch him, and I just try to take it all in.
04/15/2026: “Flower Field: The Sequel.” NOT lucid.
I am sitting criss-cross in a meadow, one that stretches eternally in every direction. Vivid flora spans across the terrain, blades of grass and diverse species of wildflowers, each plant dancing gently in the wind.
My father sits beside me, and I lean my head to rest on his shoulder. I’m happy he’s here, but it feels as though I haven’t seen him in forever, and I’m not sure why that is.
“The sun is setting,” he mutters, his voice traveling in smooth waves across the open field.
“I suppose so,” I whisper, watching as orange rays melt into the horizon, their tips a rich magenta, making way for the indigo twilight.
“I can’t stay.”
“I-” A tear swims down my face. “I know.” So painful to say, yet it’s true. Somehow, I know that there is nothing I can do to prevent his departure.
“Wait with me ‘til I go?” he asks, and I lift my head to look at him once last time.
“I wish you didn’t have to go at all,” I confess, and his lip trembles. “But of course, Dad. Of course I’ll wait. I’ll always wait.”
And so I do, until the dream turns to night, gifting dawn to the waking hemisphere.
