Dream

There, sitting on the floor beside his bed sat the gleaming strip of metal. In a patch of sunlight, let in by the open window to his left, the thing shined. It shone strangely eloquent against its rough exterior. He contemplated its being there for a few minutes before getting up. He had thought about an answer that he already knew. He was not sure why. He picked it up casually and held it in amusement. Long and cylindrical, it gave the boy a strong sense of control. He enjoyed this sentiment for a few moments and then he turned it on its side, admiring the handle and the small, curved lever protruding just above it. Finally, and still smiling, he put the piece up against his forehead. And then, in a blink, the lever had been pulled and the boy was gone.

She had the dream every night. Every night, the exact same dream. Every night she shouted silently to the boy. Every night she claimed his innocence to no one. She dreaded sleep, she dreaded seeing the boy again. She was so afraid of what she knew would happen. She was so intent on stopping him, on saving him. But she could not, for it had only been a dream. Just a dream. Yes, that is what they would tell her. But, of course, they just didn’t understand. And, well, how could they? How could they begin to understand? They couldn’t. It was her dream. Hers alone.

What was his name? She wondered often. Did he even have a name? Or was that not important? Had she met him? Would she? Was he dead? Was he ever alive? A bizarre thing had happened. Reality, it seemed, had crossed a distinct boundary, a line between the dream and the not. She no longer knew what she did. She no longer had any idea to begin with. All she had were restless nights, sleepless nights, and a boy- a dead, dying boy.

She sipped her coffee with haste. Her senses demanded caffeine. How she would make it through another sleep deprived day escaped her mentality. She no longer deliberated such things. The question could not be proposed, not without a crushing disappointment. Her eyes were lumped with dark and strained circles of fatigue. Her eyes were distant and consumed- lost. They found their way past the street and the passing cars on the way to work, and the streetlights, and the people. They found a boy, far off in the distance. He was holding something, and he was smiling. Why was he smiling? What was he so happy about? Was he happy at all?

She sat at her desk and bore blankly into the wall. She sat and drifted. She drifted away from responsibility. And all else. To a loveless place, a place with a boy and an end. The two would very shortly meet. The two would meet. The two would. The two met.

Her tears did not save the boy, and neither did her pills or her “medicine.” She stopped sleeping. There was little point. Sleep meant seeing him, the boy, meant living it again. Sleep meant no sleep at all. It was a much better thing to just stay awake. But that did not always work. Not always. Sometimes she would fall asleep at the table or in the chair. Sometimes she would fall asleep on the floor or in the kitchen. Sometimes she would fall asleep in any place at all. And there he was, always waiting, always smiling, and always contemplating. His thoughts were unclear; they were sorted against her own. She knew he was happy about something, something made him glad. Something.

She rocked solemnly in her dimly lit bedroom. She was in the corner, lost for all else. The fifth day or the sixth, she had not been sure, had passed without a single phone call. People had called and knocked at first, but not anymore. They had all decided that she must not have been there. But she was. And she was very much with company. He never spoke. And neither did she. No they did not speak. She rocked to not sleep. She rocked to not kill. She did not wish to kill again.

There he was. He was there. There and smiling. Smiling. Always smiling. Always with the same face, always there and smiling. Always the same, always. In one second there and gone. She never stayed to see what happened next. She never thought to. She woke up for a moment. Then again she slept.

She fell forward and onto the floor. The contact with the hard wood startled her to consciousness. She lay for a moment, staring across the dark base of her bedroom. Something then caught her eye, something under her bed. The thing was long, and seemed to catch a bit of the dim light on its shaft. She pulled at the thing, bringing it into view. As recognition dawned, something else did as well. And the boy became clearer than he had before. So clear that she knew where she had seen him. So clear that she knew where to find him. And something else seemed to come about then, something she had known, but had not known. As she felt the horrific truth, she moved towards the closet, pulling it open forcefully. Moving the tattered and blood stained sheets aside, she found him. He was not smiling.

There, sitting on the floor beside her bed sat the gleaming strip of metal. In a patch of sunlight, let in by the open window to her left, the thing shined. It shone strangely eloquent against its rough exterior. She contemplated its being there for a few minutes before getting up. She had thought about an answer that she already knew. She was not sure why. She picked it up casually and held it in amusement. Long and cylindrical, it gave the girl a strong sense of control. She enjoyed this sentiment for a few moments and then she turned it on its side, admiring the handle and the small, curved lever protruding just above it. Finally, and still smiling, she put the piece up against his forehead. And then, in a blink, the lever had been pulled and the boy was gone. Gone once again, but for the very first time.

The boy was gone, and then she smiled.

A guy