A man wakes up from a coma to find that his dreams illustrate the future. And that they can be controlled.

I am in a hospital, cheap fluorescents buzzing and casting dingy light over a twisted hallway. My vision is monochromatic; everything is shrouded in a blurred, black-and-white fog. The image is grainy as well, as if shot through night vision goggles. I float down the hall casting no shadows; I see no evidence that I even possess a body. All around me the walls excrete a smell of the dead and dying, and I see wretched forms writhing in the beds through open doors. It is almost a surreal sight.

            I float by the operating room and a doctor rushes past with a defibrillator. The doors bang open as he pushes through them, and I see a smear of color in the fog. An old man convulses on the operating table, a strange radiance about him. Every time he moves, he leaves a short colored blur in his wake; his body looks as if someone had painted him with watercolors.

            I float through the operating room doors for a closer look and see the doctors charging the pads, the machine giving off a shrill electric whine. The pads make contact and his back arcs sharply; the machine gives off an evil, deep-seated buzz. A gloved hand checks the pulse and they charge the machine again. And again. And again.

The End

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