Martin Hooijmans | Lars de Ruyter
Jimbo dared not dream. He used to, however.
Everything had come true. It was wonderful at first. Sort of. As a child, his Godzilla toy had come to life, had run around the house, growling, and had grown hungry. Sofia the cat never meowed again.
As a teenager, in an angry fit, he dreamed that his father disappeared. Twenty years later, mom still kept a private investigator on the payroll.
In college, Jimbo had dreamt of another name. People had started calling him Jimbo. It was hardly an improvement.
When he woke up with water all around him, his bed floating in the aftermath of a storm in his head, he decided it was enough. A quick trip to the pharmacy got him enough sleeping pills to eliminate any chance of nighttime brain activity. Meditation drowned out the desires that snuck into Jimbo’s mind during the day. He gave up drinking, and said no to drugs. He was in control.
It lasted a year.
Then she came.
Jimbo couldn’t help himself. He dreamed of a life with her. And everything went great. Big house, cute dog, awesome times in the bedroom. Life couldn’t be better.
Then her other husband showed up. He was a giant of a man, and planted a giant of a fist in Jimbo’s face.
Jimbo saw stars, and dreamed of floating around in outer space.
Nobody saw him again.