Recurring

In the dream I am playing baseball. I hate baseball. I’m in the outfield, tugging at my striped collar impatiently. Every time the ball comes my way I blink and it’s gone, before I can even raise my glove. I’m forever anticipating the catch. None of the other players notice me, and though I call out and wave my arms in their direction, they are oblivious. The announcer mumbles echoing commentary that sounds like a buzz to me. I look around, squinting in the sharp light of the stadium. The grass is too green, the fans are yelling too loud and too monotone for it to be real. As soon as I realize that it must be a dream the scene dissolves into another.

                When the world comes back into focus I’m in a once-familiar room, on a once-familiar bed. Nothing has changed as far as I can tell except that my picture is no longer taped to the wall by the window. The tan blanket beneath me is softer than I remember. Looking down, I notice that the floor is littered with scraps of paper, and somehow I know that it’s imperative that I fit the pieces together. I kneel on the carpet and gather them all together, realizing as I do so that I feel like they belong to me. Blue bunny paper; notes I’d written in fondness forgotten. I piece together one from April and it makes me cry. I hear the door open softly and I look up; the cat. She mews at me and ambles over to nuzzle my leg. I sneeze once, and sweep all the paper to the side. The blinds are down, so I can’t tell what time it is because the clock face on the cable box is blank. There is no lamp but the room is brightly lit nonetheless. Again, I realize I must be dreaming and the room melts around me.

                I fall painlessly onto a dark but moonlit road, another once-familiar place, akin to the last. The moon is nearly full- two more days at most. The wind rustles the dry leaves as I walk, yet it does not blow my hair around. I have a bottle of water in my hand that’s missing its label. I take a thirsty gulp but feel no relief in my parched throat. Again and again I drink until the bottle is empty, slurping crazily at the last drops. Still, my mouth and throat is dry as if I had just run a mile. I throw the bottle into an overgrown ditch next to a rusted metal gate. My pace quickens, but not from fright. I wish to see my destination; a thrill growing in my chest in anticipation of what memory tells me will be there.  At the end of the road where pavement turns to gravel I stop and look to the right: a solitary streetlight, buzzing eerily, it’s almost neon stare hurting my eyes. Once more, something is out of place. There should be a house by the light, but there is nothing but a scatter of old bricks and a lone metal lawn chair.

Author's Note

work in progress.