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The beast stirred lightly, making a low murmuring sound, still he didn’t wake.
The relief in his expression was evident.
The dark shadows of exhaustion and stress that often marked the faces of the prisoners in Ikmal had faded.
He would wake up refreshed, having had a rare night of undisturbed sleep, free from the nightmares that haunted many of the prison’s occupants.
I took pride in that.
Pushing off from the cell wall, I stepped into the hall.
The dreamworld of Ikmal was an eerie reflection of the physical realm.
Everything seemed to have a surreal, hazy quality, like a painting that was still wet, its colors ready to bleed with a single touch.
It was also alive in a way the waking world wasn’t.
Each cell’s occupant radiated differently, pulsating with emotions and energies.
I could sense them all.
One cell radiated with a golden warmth, the delicious aroma of a festive family meal wafting out.
There was laughter, love, and a nostalgia that tugged at my heart.
A few cells down, the door was ice cold.
I could hear the wind howling, and feel the chill bite at my fingers.
The pungent stink of sweat and rusted metal reached me, telling tales of some long-ago battle and the scars it left behind.
Another door vibrated with anger, the air around it thick and hard to breathe.
I moved silently through the corridor, a guardian of dreams, ensuring that each prisoner who’d paid for my services received a peaceful night’s rest.
The dreamworld was my domain, a place where I held power and influence.
It was an escape from the harsh reality of the prison, and I relished every moment I spent in it.
But it wasn’t just about the power.
It was about connection.
In the waking world, prisoners were often reduced to mere numbers, stripped of their individuality.
Here, in the dreamworld, each dream was unique, each prisoner an individual with their own story to tell.
The dreamworld’s corridor extended before me, doors on either side, each a portal to a different universe of emotions, memories, and desires.
I felt drawn to one particular door, different from the rest.
It wasn’t shiny or adorned but rather aged and withered, its surface cracked and worn out.
This cell door radiated with an almost magnetic pull, inviting yet intimidating.
I approached and pushed against the door.
It creaked open, revealing the prisoner sleeping on his cot.
