â âMy eyes! They stabbed out my eyes!â
I shoot awake. Start to struggle up from my bed. An arm hits the side of my head. Knocks me down. A man screams, âMy eyes! Who took my eyes?â
âDervish!â I roar, rolling off the bed, landing beside the feet of my frantic uncle. âItâs only a dream! Wake up!â
âMy eyes!â Dervish yells again. I can see his face now, illuminated by a three-quarters full moon. Eyes wide open, but seeing nothing. Fear scribbled into every line of his features. He lifts his right foot. Brings it down towards my head â hard. I make like a turtle and only just avoid having my nose smashed.
âYou took them!â he hisses, sensing my presence, fear turning to hate. He bends and grabs my throat. His fingers tighten. Dervish is thin, doesnât look like much, but his appearance is deceptive. He could crush my throat, easy.
I swipe at his hand, yanking my neck away at the same time. Break free. Scrabble backwards. Halted by the bed. Dervish lunges after me. I kick at his head, both feet. No time to worry about hurting him. Connect firmly. Drive him back. He grunts, shakes his head, loses focus.
âDervish!â I shout. âItâs me, Grubbs! Wake up! Itâs only a nightmare! You have to stop before youââ
âThe master,â Dervish cuts in, fear filling his face again. Heâs staring at the ceiling â rather, thatâs where his eyes are fixed. âLord Loss.â He starts to cry. âDonât⦠please⦠not again. My eyes. Leave them alone. Pleaseâ¦â
âDervish,â I say, softly this time, rising, rubbing the side of my head where he hit me, approaching him cautiously. âDervish. Derv the perv â whereâs your nerve?â Knowing from past nights that rhymes draw his attention. âDerv on the floor â whereâs the door? Derv without eyes â whatâs the surprise?â
He blinks. His head lowers a fraction. Sight returns gradually. His pupils were black holes. Now they look quasi-normal.
âItâs OK,â I tell him, moving closer, wary in case the nightmare suddenly fires up again. âYouâre home. With me. Lord Loss canât get you here. Your eyes are fine. It was just a nightmare.â
âGrubbs?â Dervish wheezes.
âYes, boss.â
âThatâs really you? Youâre not an illusion? He hasnât created an image of you, to torment me?â
âDonât be stupid. Not even Michelangelo could sculpt a face this perfect.â
Dervish smiles. The last of the nightmare passes. He sits on the floor and looks at me through watery globes. âHow you doing, big guy?â
âCoolio.â
âDid I hurt you?â he asks quietly.
âYou couldnât if you tried,â I smirk, not telling him about the hit to the head, the hand on my throat, the foot at my face.
I sit beside him. Drape an arm around his shoulders. He hugs me tight. Murmurs, âIt was so real. I thought I was back there. Iâ¦â
And then he weeps, sobbing like a child. And I hold him, talking softly as the moon descends, telling him itâs OK, heâs home, heâs safe â heâs no longer in the universe of demons.
â Never trust fairy tales. Any story that ends with âThey all lived happily ever afterâ is a crock. There are no happy endings. No endings, full stop. Life goes on. Thereâs always something new around the corner. You can overcome major obstacles, face great danger, look evil in the eye and live to tell the tale â but thatâs not the end. Life sweeps you forward, swings you round, bruises and batters you, drops some new drama or tragedy in your lap, never lets go until you get to the one true end â death. As long as youâre breathing, your storyâs still going.
If the rules of fairy-tales did work, my story would have ended on a high four months ago. Thatâs when Dervish regained his senses and everything seemed set to return to normal. But that was a false ending. A misleading happy pause.
I had to write a short autobiography for an English assignment recently. A snappy, zappy summing-up of my life. I had to discard my first effort â it was too close to the bone, and would have only led to trouble if Iâd handed it in. I wrote an edited, watered-down version and submitted that instead. (I got a B minus.) But I kept the original. Itâs hidden under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. I dig it out now to read, to pass some time. Iâve read through it a lot these past few weeks, usually early in the morning, after an interrupted night, when I canât sleep.