The Dream Monologue

The Dream
“Dreams, contrary to widely held belief, mean absolutely nothing to ones imagining them,” Dr. Amara said, “They are just a byproduct of our brain’s mental processes. They’re like wisdom teeth, useless.”
Daisy had heard those words more times than she had been in Dr. Amara’s personal office. She sat stiff on the couch, a tacky daybed where hundreds of frantic people had sat before her. Despite the myriad of sessions, the two had had together, Daisy hadn’t felt any calmer or saner. Her mother had urged her to cooperate regardless.
“That’s what you always say,” Daisy said. “Can’t you do anything? I can’t handle them anymore. They’re too real.” She had her written descriptions, but she had never seen them for herself. Daisy had never felt more desperate for a medical breakthrough.
“Sweetie, our brains are perhaps the most complex thing

“Dreams are just byproducts of mental pro—"
“Daisy!”
She nearly leapt off the door. It was her mother. “Mom, where are you?”
“Daisy, I need help! Please help me!” She could hear her mother choking on her own tears, losing breath. But where?
She nearly ripped the door off its hinges and ran through the house following her mother’s hysterical voice. It seemed as if the number of hallways and doors quadrupled; she opened everyone, but there was no sign of her.
“DAISY!”
“Mom, please, tell me where you are!” she bellowed. She stopped to listen for a response, but silence flooded the house.
“Mom!” she shouted again. There was no response. Daisy covered her mouth with hands to stifle a scream. Daisy grazed her fingers across the wall, across her mom's frames, across the familiar abrasions. This is too real. Is it real?
Daisy took a look around her. Not even the dust under the kitchen table had shifted. She shook her head. “This is just a dream. Dreams are just a byproduct of mental processes,” she repeated this to herself as she ambled back to her