He woke up, sweating. His heart was beating fast, like a train and he was panting. Looking around he realised he was having another of the dreams, that he was safe in his bedroom, with his wife beside him. Sighing, he lay down again and soon was fast asleep.
It was the third time he had the dream. This time he could feel every ounce of pain, every bite of the rope. His hands were tied with a thick rope that bit into his skin and his eyes were blindfolded. He could hear the sound of water rushing by and feel the soft squish of mud as they pushed him. He stumbled and stretched out his hands to prevent the fall. Someone pulled him roughly and hit his face, hard.
Somewhere he could hear voices in a language he didn't understand. He wondered what was happening and where he was. If it was a dream, why was it so real? The pain was excruciating he thought he would die of it.
Then the voice barked an order and he was pulled to a stop. They were now so close to the river he could almost touch the water. The next part was the one he dreaded most. In the previous dream he was shot and he fell into the water.
Now at the sound of the shot, he could feel the sharp pain as the bullet hit his chest. He found himself face down in the water, gulping for air. Water rushed into his mouth, his lungs. He thought, if this is a dream, let me wake up now God.
When his wife came in to pull the curtains, she screamed. He was lying on the bed, eyes wide open, blood congealed on his chest and the sheets stained red.
To this day, nobody could answer why his clothes were wet, his feet caked in mud.