Kenneth has always been fascinated by his dreams. In some ways that was part of his problem. He knew the doctors had labeled it; they called it paranoid schizophrenia. Kenneth knew the only problem he ever had was he liked to dream. His favorite were the daydreams. He could drift into a daydream any time he liked. Kenneth would often do it right in front of people he wanted to entertain. He would dream of being a child or an angry bitter old man. It worked he thought. Kenneth was not as interested in the other dreams he had; the ones he had at night. They were not of his control. He would often feel hurt or lost. Most of the night dreams started when he was about seven, and for a while they were bad, real bad.
They were not like the dreams of a normal person his mom would say; normal people don't bleed in their dreams.
She told kennith to never tell anybody about that part, the blood. As the years past he would wake up fewer and fewer times with the sticky brown red mess that covered his body. Kenneth had often heard the stories of the poor souls in school that wet the bed. He remembered the aweful torment those kids went through, and he knew what he would endure if any of those boys on the playground ever found out about his dreams.
The dreams Kenneth had at night started the night his grandfather died. He remembered it like it had happend that afternoon. Kenneth had been working in the yard with his grandfather all day. He knew the reward for his sweat as he watched his friends play would be a crispy five-dollar bill. They were installing a sprinkler system. Kenneth had dug what seemed to be miles of trench for the PVC pipe. His grandfather was now digging because there was a large tree root that needed to be cut. He had had to do this twice before because of the large oaks in the yard. Then like something out of a horror movie the ground around the shovel exploded. Kenneth's grandfather was knocked back twenty feet from the crater that looked like molten glass and semi melted shovel. Kenneth wanted to run inside, but every thing was a glare. Then he saw his grandfather lying on the ground. Kenneth ran like he never did. His grandfather looked normal at first lying on the ground; then, as if he were sweating, blood started to seep from his grandfather skin. Within seconds his grandfather was covered with thick red blood. Kenneth's grandfather was dead killed by an underground high voltage line. Kenneth's grandfather had cut the power line in half with the shovel. One of the paramedics that responded mentioned seeing a patient sweet blood before. He said it sometimes happens when someone experiences a severe and unexpected trauma. He told Kenneth's mom that the capillaries near the surface of the skin can rupture and the blood flows from the sweat glands.
That night He dreamed that he had been digging and cut the line. It was so vivid, so real. He felt the shovel heat up to what seemed to be a thousand degrees in his hand; the power pulse through his body; and then he felt the kick as if it were a Clydesdale kicking him square in the chest. He flew through the air like a cannon ball. As Kenneth rested on the ground he felt the relief of being free form the electricity, but then as if he had been listing to the paramedic word for word his skin began to ach and itch. He knew what was happing. The man in white with the little red toolbox who could do nothing for his grandfather had explained it in perfect detail. The microscopic vessels at the vary surface of his skin had begun to rupture. The blood flood from his pores like some thick sticky sweat. Kenneth remembered sitting up in bed trying to wipe the grime from his body he realized he was no longer dreaming, but the blood was still there as real as his fingers or his nose. Kenneth never told anybody about the blood. He never said a word to his doctors for fear they would think he was crazy.