Time to Wake Up

That hurt. Deep dimples from her teeth on his forearm blossomed in black and white. O, Mother Nature, fill these basins with blood and saliva.

"Why did you bite me??"

No answer.

M. cast a glance at his itching forearm. The indentations outlined the shape of a heart. Rounded on the sides, sharp at the bottom. The skin film was resisting. Resisting yet. But he felt the pulsating pressure from within. The flowers will open their buds to the dew. Black, thick dew.

"You really must visit an orthodontist. I know one. It's not normal, your bite, I mean."

Finally, blood found its way to the surface. Black, thick droplets on white, smooth skin. It's time to wake up.

M. was so focused on the teeth marks on his forearm that he completely missed who bit him. He tried to restore her face in his memory, but all he could get was a blurry smudge. Or was it his face?

Having dreams in black and white is, of course, very film-noir. But, internally, M. was protesting against this greyness; his inner eye rods and cones malfunctioning fretted him greatly.

Time and time again, things were getting from bad to worse. The other day, M. received a call.

"We stole your identity. You have one week to pay the ransom; otherwise, you won't see yourself ever again. 1000 bucks. Cash only."

Like, what? M. couldn't believe he was this cheap. It smelled of a ridiculously silly joke. We stole your identity. How come?

Only yesterday, it took him more than an hour to find his reflection in the mirror. That's when things stopped being funny.

After he finally managed to make sure his hair was styled in the right way, he hurried out of his studio, in parallel, dialing his colleague to let him know he was gonna be late.

Unfamiliar voice purred into his ear:

"Hello! Would you like to make an order? We have a special offer for you: a double stressburger and a drink of your choice with a starting price of just 1 cent. But with every second of your indecisiveness, the price will double."

"No-no-no. I don't want any stressburgers. You called the wrong number."

"Sir, it was you who were calling. Don't waste my time!"

Short beeps. But why are they varying in their duration? Is it a Morse code? M. had no time for puzzles; he was already 1 hour late for work.

"You are fired!" a high-pitched squeal into his ear, belonging to his boss. Her voice could be considered melodic if not for the verbal content it carried.

"Wrong number, ma'am."

There should exist a physical law describing how mischiefs sometimes add up and precipitate into one's life. M imagined himself a trouble nucleation site, problems crystallizing around him and forming an amorphous mass of black-and-white nightmares, insomnia, and delirium.

Today is the last day for him to pay and keep his identity. M. was thinking all night. He pays, he keeps his self. At the same time, he was curious. How does it feel to completely lose oneself? Only one way to find out.

Two minutes before midnight, his phone rang.

"What have you decided? If you don't want to wake up tomorrow and realize you're no longer you, put the money under your pillow and then fall asleep. Our agent will come to collect it. But it's completely up to you. No pressure here."

"I decided."

"Okay. Then have a good night."

______________________

How is it going to feel like tomorrow?

It's time to wake up.