John P Andrews

Authors write for many reasons. To me, it was a dream, a dream that so profoundly affected me that I wrote it down. It was this dream that was the impetus for writing the But Always Me series of novels. 

The dream came to me when I was a soldier in the U.S. Army. It was October 1989, and I was in the Mojave Desert, taking part in a training exercise. At the time, I was in the middle of having a bad relationship ended for me. And I was feeling a tremendous amount of anxiety over a breakup that I wanted but didn’t want at the same time. 

I believe that great hardship, loss, or feelings of utter helplessness can bring religious visions or spiritual insights to those that are ready to receive them. To me, it was the emotions of anger and sadness over a love lost, a feeling of helplessness being so far from home, and an opening up of my soul to self-reflection. The desert’s openness and sparseness of life brought it all together as a catalyst. And I can’t help but feel a connection between the emotions of the breakup and the feelings and realizations brought to the forefront by the dream. When I awoke, it was not only the dream that was racing through my head but also all the emotions of the breakup. As if they were one set of emotions that came from two separate pasts.

The dream that came to me that chilly October night as I lay in my sleeping bag breathing the dust of the desert air, my squad members sleeping around me, was so intense and lifelike that I wrote it down. Never before or since has a dream affected me as much as this one. A sweat-stained pocket notebook still holds the words and feelings I scribbled on its pages upon reentering the world of the living, gasping for air.

I will never forget that moment I awoke from the dream, shaking and soaked with sweat. It was so real and lifelike that I wasn’t sure it was over, even after I was fully awake sitting huddled in my sleeping bag smoking a cigarette. Even that day, in the full light of the sun, I felt detached, as if at any moment I could again slip back into the dream. And as I was to learn later, the dream was nothing compared to what had and would happen.

From my recollection, it began with intense physical and emotional pain. I found myself in a prison cell, suspended from the ceiling by my wrists. They were held tight by iron shackles attached to a chain looped over a hook. As if through a haze or dim light, I could see my surroundings. Dirty straw littered the stone floor and bars were set into the floor and ceiling before me. On the other side of them, a brown-skinned girl dressed in rags stood staring at me with pity in her eyes. Face pressed up against the bars, her hands on either side of her head, fingers wrapped around the steel shafts. Around me, the air stank of human waste and rotting food. Rats scurried through the mess below me with impunity.

Though the pain in my arms and wrists was excruciating, something more dreadful was within me. I could feel the tightness in my chest caused by the terror and confusion about where I was and what was happening to me. I felt sure that I was going to die, and I was not ready. Through it all, I kept screaming out within myself that I should not be there! It was not my fault! I had done nothing wrong!

Three men came into my cell and removed me from the hook, and dropped my body onto the floor. They beat me and I was sure that they were going to kill me. I could hear them asking questions, but I couldn’t answer. Then they dragged out of my cell, two of the men on either side, into a blinding light.

It was then I jerked awake. Arms flailing and lungs gasping for breath. I sat up, ripping the sleeping bag from around me. I was panicked and my body, soaked in sweat, was shaking uncontrollably. My breathing came in ragged gasps. I could see nothing but blackness. I didn’t know where I was, and the visions of the dream were still within me. But in only a few seconds, my conscious mind again took over and reality came crashing down. I could smell the desert air and hear the breathing and movement of sleeping men around me, and realized where I was. Not wanting anyone to wake up and question what was happening to me, I laid back down. In the darkness, I tried to remain as still as possible, cringing in a feeling of despair and terror, my arms wrapped around my knees.

John Andrews writes first-person story-driven fiction that deep down is a love story.