Blurred Lines

Uhhh, the sun is so bright here. It’s impossible to sleep when all of the windows are only covered with sheer billowy linen. And for some reason it seems to be unspeakable that anyone would actually want to close them. To block out the world for just a moment...the smell of blood is still in my nostrils. They say, whoever they are…, that people don’t dream in color and the idea that one might be able to smell something in a dream is even less fathomable…

I guess they’ve never experienced my dreams. It was a dream, right?

I guess I should back up and explain. You see a couple of weeks ago I started having these horribly vivid dreams, which led me to the most unlikely decision I have ever made. I went to a therapist. At least I think that I started going to the therapist after the dreams started. For some reason, my very dull, very routinely clear life has become a muddled mess.

I hate therapists. I hate thinking about myself...I would rather remain blissfully ignorant to my own thoughts and motives...self-realization, it’s more trouble than it's worth.

The first day I went into her office, it felt like someone was watching me. The entire drive there I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see my mortal enemy following close behind...as though I, a boring mundane pencil pusher would have a mortal enemy. The idea was preposterous, yet I couldn’t shake it. Maybe it’s good I am going to a therapist!

I sat there for forty-five minutes answering her silly questions about my past, my family, my job, my wants and desires. What this has to do with my dreams, I simply don’t know.

“How long has it been since you spoke to your family?”

“What… why?”

“It’s just a question.”

“LADY, I AM HERE BECAUSE I WANT THE DREAMS TO STOP.”

“Did you have these dreams as a child?”

“No. My childhood was fine.”

She just stared at me for a moment. “Okay, then, I think our best course of action would be hypnotherapy. How do you feel about that?”

I contemplated for a moment, I didn’t know if I believed in hypnotherapy. What was she going to do, make me cluck like a chicken and then all my bad dreams would be gone. But she didn’t really give me a chance to respond. She started explaining as though she already knew my questions. She said something about entering my dreams...maybe she needs a therapist.

“Will it stop the dreams?”

“If it’s only a dream… Why do you think it affects you so much? Dreams cannot physically harm us, they are not real.”

I didn’t have an answer. That's why I came to her. Dreams shouldn’t seem so real even after you wake up. But mine do...at least lately they do.

Hypnotherapy is a weird thing. It’s hard to describe. It is like you are awake, you hear all of the questions…, no, directions, and you know that you are the one responding. She always speaks in the cool smooth voice, the one that makes your hair stand on end and goosebumps run down your spine. And then suddenly you are in the dream.

I came downstairs confused. Why would someone be knocking on my door this early in the morning. The sun is barely on the horizon and this joker is insistent that I come to the door. I could feel the icy cold wind hit my face before the door fully opened. The trees were shivering so hard it almost seemed like they were trying to speak, warning. A wintery morning in the dead of summer.

That’s strange… there is no one here. I looked up and down the street. No cars. No one moving steadily away. In my bewilderment, I almost missed it entirely. A bundle made of soft cotton rag paper lying on the stoop. It had pressed yellow flowers in on, clearly handmade and tied together with care. I took it inside not wanting to stay in this unseasonal draft.

Holy Crap! There is at least twenty thousand dollars here. But why...where did it come from.

“Can you come back the same time next week?”

What? I looked at her with confusion in my eyes, was she speaking to me?

“Can you come back the same time next week?”

Her voice sounded distant, like it was at the end of a dark hallway obscured by secrecy and disaster. I better come back next week...I am losing it.

Every night I dreaded going to bed, fighting sleep like a toddler who just wanted to keep running in circles. It was inevitable though, I always fell asleep. Maybe this will be the night that the dreams won't come for me. Maybe.

43 Charter Place, Hartford

I have walked past this house a hundred times now. It’s beautiful. The green and purple hues hugging every angle of the three story Victorian house. To think that such a house will be soiled with the memories of death. But what historic house couldn’t use a good ghost story?

I have surveyed it from every angle. I know how to get in and out. There is also a good vantage point from over there...it’s only two roofs away, and the house has been empty for three months with no hint of a buyer, it’s a clean shot.

No, the most reliable plan is to go inside and escape through the basement door. I don’t have time for miscalculations or unforeseen errors. That’s what I’ll do. It’s been decided.

“You completed the contract?”

What? Yes of course! … “I’m sorry what did you say?” I could have sworn she just asked me...

“I asked if you completed the exercises I gave you, the ones to help you sleep. Did they work?”

“I… I tried them.” I think. I don’t remember. I don’t even entirely remember coming to her office. “I don’t think the exercises are helping. The dreams are still just as bad. It’s funny, it’s like I just go right back to where I left off…” I looked up at her for answers, and found her face cold and blank… “Isn’t that peculiar?”

“Uncommon, maybe. Or maybe your subconscious just needs to play it out. Come to some sort of solution if you will.” She said it slowly, but with a nonchalant tone and waved it off with her hand, as though it were merely an unimportant question.

“Right.”

It had been several days since the last time I saw Dr. Creepy. She's a nice lady, don’t get me wrong, but every time I go to her office… I... I leave with the sense I have forgotten something.

No! Missed something.

Like I misplaced a huge piece of the puzzle that she is supposed to divulge. And when I look down the puzzle piece is in my hand… Heck! She has probably already written down the answers in that little black book of hers. Crazy, I am going crazy.

I expected to feel different. The man didn’t even wake up, nor did his wife. She clearly kicked him out of their room years ago.

I knew that he slept in this guest room, but I didn’t realize that the furnishing and decor were laid out just perfectly, you know, to make sure that no one who came to visit would ever suspect a thing. His clothes weren’t even in the closet. Instead, there were guest towels and unwrapped soap and extra blankets just waiting for someone to spend the night. Yet his wallet and jewelry lay beside his breathing machine on the nightstand. And there were crumbs from the snack he ate three nights ago.

No, I didn’t feel any different. Other than the smell of a wet metallic odor lingering in my nostrils and the rapidly increasing heart beat that told me I needed to get out of this house and quick. But the only feeling that I had was exhaustion. I hadn’t slept in weeks, I could feel it and it was clouding my judgment. Second door on the left. Past the butler’s pantry.

I was a little concerned that his teenage children would be the first to find him. That would bother me. The boy is in training, crew I think, he gets up and runs most mornings. But not usually on Sundays. Down the stairs into the basement. No, the wife will find him. It’s the only morning the maid doesn’t come to make breakfast. The door is just past the laundry room. Don’t be seen. “Maybe you need to plan a vacation.”

Who, did they see me… wait, “What?”

“Maybe you need to plan a vacation. Give yourself something to look forward to. You are always complaining about being mundane, unnoticed, so change it up. Get away for a while.”

“You think I should take a vacation?”

“It could be good for you.”

I left her office for the last time four days ago. I was going to set up another appointment, but I had the sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t make it. I didn’t want to leave some scheduled meeting out there, something that would reveal I was missing. Missing, hmm. What a foreboding thought.

Seriously, just because it's a paradise does that really mean that all of the windows have to be open? It seems like ages since I got here, but I know that it has only been a few hours. Maybe I did feel different. Was it guilt? Relief that I didn’t get caught? No, it's exhilaration. I like not being boring. I feel alive and indestructible.

The second cotton ragged envelope lay on the credenza near the bathroom. I hadn’t fully opened it yet, but I already knew what was inside. The down payment wasn’t even a quarter of what they had promised, whoever they are. Yet another passport, another plane ticket.

I liked the smell of the air here, the palm trees whispering that they could see how important I was. It was all lies of course, I child playing dress up for a few days. And the solitude that comes from being on an island is a false sense of security. But a false sense is better than looking over your shoulder.

“Room service.”

Oh, uh… “Just a minute.”

“Good evening, would you like me to send up a maid?”

“Don’t they usually come in the mornings?”

“Yes, but it’s been three days, I thought you might want fresh towels.”

Three days! I thought I just got here.

She had a nice smile, familiar, but for some reason I didn’t trust her. Clearly, I don’t trust anyone anymore. When did I order room service?

“Wait!” She nearly set the food right down beside the half opened envelope. I gave a forced chuckle and grinned maybe a little too much, I’ll have to work on that. “I don’t want to get food on it!” If she saw anything she didn’t let on, why did the paper have to be so distinct? Stop being paranoid. What do you have to hide?