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"WAKE UP!" A voice shouted, pulling me from my light slumber.
I had been dreaming. Dreaming about something that had been causing my body to sweat and tremor. It was already fading so fast, I couldn't grasp onto what it had been about. The voices and images were slipping from my mind like sand through fingers.
Gaining a sense of awareness, I instantly felt for my knife, a sigh of relief washing over me as my fingertips brushed against the weapon. This action had become a familiar repetition each day. In the face of danger, I couldn't seem to let myself relax until I ran my hands along the maple burl handle, feeling the smoothed wood. Only then would I let myself exhale.
"Dad, Wake up!"
I rapidly pushed off the bed I had chosen last night, cursing myself for falling entirely asleep. I'd decided I would try and stay aware, like most nights. And though the mattress creaky and old, it soothed the dullest parts of me. Coaxed me into oblivion.
The room itself was painted a bizarre yellow color— one that I couldn't imagine someone willingly picking out. It was decorated in beach themed paintings, and small trinkets like conch shells, sand dollars, and dried starfish skeletons.
Before lying down last night, I had stood in front of the paintings and looked long and hard at them. As if I were in an art gallery, I had intently focused on each brush stroke and every chosen color. Even though the art was simple and minimalistic, I took myself to the very image—wondering what it would be like if the scene were reality.
Once pushing the sheets away and getting to my feet, I mumbled a few vulgar words at the temperature in the room. Although the Georgia heat was intense, the mornings showed no sign of the oncoming sunlight.
This persuaded me to grab the brown bomber jacket which had been sprawled across the bedside armchair. I thought for a moment, wondering if whoever put it there, thought that they would return for it. It was uncanny to think of all the items I owned which were not really mine, but belonged to the deceased.
