The Awakening

The alley smells of new rain and old piss. Weaving between the deluges from overflowing downpipes, the dishevelled man leads me further into the darkness. He's oblivious to my presence, the first hint that this is one of my voyeuristic dreams. I shiver, not just from the cold, although I feel that to my bones, but from fear that this is one of those dreams that morphs into nightmare. It’s a cross I bear. Perverted dreams of young women in their most private moments, always start well and then degrade, if that’s the right word. They were degrading to begin with, but at some point, they turn even darker and always end in my death. Justice, I presume, for my perverse imaginings.

But why have I found myself dreaming of an old tramp leading me down a dark alley? Where is the glimpse though apartment curtains of a woman changing, or making love to her man, or even making dinner for that matter. Anything would be better than this sorry scenario.

Our destination is a rubbish skip at the end of the alley. It’s overflowing with waste. I wonder for a moment when it will be emptied. I try to remember what day it is, and when the city clears the rubbish. I’m not sure why such trivialities are concerning me.

At the skip, the man kneels over a prone figure. A woman.

She can't be more than twenty. And won't be getting any older. Just like the ones I dream of spying on, except dead. The girl next door. Blonde hair tied back in a cute ponytail. Blue eyes, shockingly open with rain pooled in them, but reflecting nothing but death. She looks sad and resigned. I feel anger flare. What was the silly bitch doing out at night? On her own. Especially in this city. Why didn't she stay inside her warm, safe apartment and be content with the likes of my spying on her.

What a waste!

And now the man is gone, disappeared into the squalls of rain. It's just me leaning over the dead girl, waiting for the nightmare to end. There is nothing left to play out. She wouldn't be getting changed out of her waitress uniform, wandering around in the nude, or dancing in front of her mirror. I notice the bruising on her neck, a corrupt rainbow of crimson, indigo and purple blotches. Strangled then. By some monster not content to simply spy on her. He had to take her life. Why? That was senseless of him.

A rage burns inside me. I want to hunt the monster down and slay him. Mete out my own brand of justice. How dare he treat such innocent beauty with such contempt. And now I hope the nightmare continues and allows me to become HIS nightmare. But I can't seem to stand. My energy is drained by the emotions; my leg muscles won't work. I collapse beside the dead girl, in the dirt and the rain, and I put my arm over her and whisper "I'm sorry for what he did." I close her eyes as gently as I can with my thumb, and stroke her hair, waiting to awaken.

The relief I feel when I wake from the nightmare is short lived. The hard mattress under my sweat soaked body isn't mine. Nor is this room. Because it's not a room, it’s a cell. As the images in my mind dissolve, not into faded disjointed snippets of a nightmare, but into crystal clear memories of reality.

Of the night before.

I hold my face in my palms, silver handcuffs clinking around my wrists. And I sob.