Wet Dreams

The sun was shining brightly through the window, the glare was irritating but a ray of light caught the metal of her pen, sending a prism to her right, which acted as a sign for the teenage boy that seen it. Her pen was flying across the paper, the ink smoothly printing and drying as her handwriting looped every which way like a kite in the sky.

She wasn’t writing anything special…yet.

Her creativity came in bursts, limericks and couplets that were pieced together during her lengthy dreams at night. She looked forward to sleeping for that reason alone, a strong sense of yearning bubbling inside her to have her words felt by others. It isn’t enough for people to see her words. “My words hold passion,” she whispered out loud, thumbing through the pages, looking for something she wrote before. She was so entranced in the pages of her book, she almost didn’t notice the attention she attracted. The phrase she was looking for was on the page she passed twice but she was frustrated, hoping to build on it. Exasperated, she closed her book and let out a startled gasp as she saw the pair of vivid amber eyes staring back at her.

He was several seats away from her on the bus. His ponytail was lush, grazing his shoulder blades with what looked like a fresh trim. He was covered in denim, with wired headphones coming out his pocket and a large backpack on his back. If she didn’t know any better, she’d assume he was a transient, however, he was too clean to be any of the locals. His face was handsome but unfamiliar, she’d never seen him on the bus before.

A blush began to creep to her face, the sun rays hitting her skin made her uncomfortably warm, despite the freezing conditions of a winter in Reno. His gaze never left her and she was growing incredibly anxious. Her thoughts consumed her and she thought of several possible scenarios of them having lunch together before she realized he was no longer staring at her. The bus driver hit the breaks hard, sending most passengers forward in their seat. Slightly shocked by the sudden movement, she saw the handsome stranger stumble slightly and a small black book slide out of his backpack before rushing off the bus when the doors open.

“Wait!” She cried, stumbling to her feet, trying not to lose her own possessions in the process. She scrambled to the front to pick up the book, thanking the driver as she got off the bus to hunt down the stranger. As the bus doors closed and the vehicle drove off, Gennie got a good look at her surroundings, not seeing anyone nearby. She was 7 more stops away from home and the chill of a brisk wind kept her from groaning out load. She lost the stranger and the stranger lost his book. She sat down on the bus stop bench in an attempt to catch the next bus. With both books in her hand, she noticed how similar they were.

Similar is an inappropriate word. The journals were eerily identical.

The same luxurious feeling bindings, the same smooth paper, they even bared the same brand insignia on the inside. Her fingers slid gently over the stranger’s book, beginning to shake as the thought of reading the contents crossed her mind. She immediately felt guilty. She would be distraught if anyone found her journal and read her innermost thoughts outloud. The rhyming insults, the adult-rated jokes, the traumatic misunderstandings that she translated into poetry. Tears sprang up to Gennie’s eyes just thinking of an accidental violation of her writings. She quickly clamped the book shut and threw both in her bag before hopping on the bus that stopped for her.

As she sat down, she looked glumly out the window. In just the short half an hour it took for the next bus to come, the brightness of the sun was smothered by thick storm clouds that seemed to originate from the mountains. She didn’t see any indications of rain on the Weather app and she wouldn’t be prepared for even the quickest of downpours, her fabric shoes, canvas bag and linen dress would be soaked and ruin everything she carried with her. Her anxieties were soothed when the bus finally pulled up to her home stop.

It was nearly dark as she turned the key into her apartment. As soon as she shut her door, she heard the clap of thunder, almost mistaking it for her strength. Then the rain started, the loud slap of water against the concrete and the smell wafted into her home through the open windows. She turned up the thermostat, threw her clothes in the hamper and laid down on her couch to listen to the rain. It was relaxing at first and then her thoughts began to consume her.

How long had that stranger been watching her today? And where in the world did he disappear to?

The day’s labor had caught up and Gennie began to feel the fatigue in her muscles. The heater made the room cozy and warmth held her as she dozed off on the couch.

She was drinking coffee, she could taste it on her tongue. Lowering the cup from her face, she stared into the liquid, contemplating the name of the color before her cup of caffeine turned into the eyes of the Stranger.

“I see you have your mind set,” He spoke. His voice was like honey, smooth and soothing. She could almost taste the sweetness of his mouth through his words. She stood still, watching him with her eyes but he slowly circled her. His attired changing with every rotation of her head. His suits went from sleek to elaborate. Kerchiefs switched colors, moving down the visible light spectrum. “Don’t be afraid to get wet,” He said, pulling a red umbrella from behind his body. The umbrella expanded, and suddenly it started to rain.

The clap of thunder shook her from the dream. Startled, she sat up, watching the water pound the window as the lighting lit up the front yard. She rushed to the side of the bed, hurrying to grab her journal and write down the dream before it slipped her mind completely. She could feel herself losing information like ribbons falling from her hair. Patting the surroundings of the nightstand for a pen, she threw open the book and began to hastily write the details that she remembered. Her pen flying across the page as she stared into the darkness, desperately trying to recall the details. A beam of lightning lit up the room for a brief second as she looked down and realized she was writing over something. She quickly lifted her pen off the book and took the book to the window. The brief and mellow light from the street was enough despite the storm and she fingered the pages of the book.

She whispered obscenities as she realized she wrote her dream down in the stranger’s book. It would be simple enough, but her handwriting was scribbled over something already written down. She slowly walked to the hallway, flipping on a switch to illuminate the house. She sat down, away from the uncovered bedroom window and took a good look at the black book she took home.

There was something written on every page, except the last one.

Lots of the excepts weren’t even in English. It seemed like it was bordering on a Romance language, but she didn’t have the capacity to try and decipher the words with Google Translate. Many of the pages were bound with paper clips. She flipped rapidly through the pages, tearing a few in her desire to find the page she destroyed with her own writing.

It almost looked like a puzzle when she found it.

Her sloppy cursive weaving in between the large print of the address. It was artistic, if it wasn’t eating Gennie’s conscious from the inside out. As someone who journals daily, she understood what it meant to lose it, or worse yet, have someone take it from you and throw their respect for your belongings out the window. She felt physical pain for the stranger, despite her lack of purpose for destroying his belongings.

“4515 South Sycamore?” She whispered, immediately hitting the switch in the hallway. Her heartbeat began to speed up, thumping loudly against her sternum, or so it felt like. A slight lump formed in her throat, making it impossible to keep her eyes dry. Her eyes were weighed down with the tears threatening to fall down her face.

The address was right across the fence. Once belonging to her sister, the house has been abandoned for the last several years. Her parents hated the idea of selling the house after Gianna died, despite selling their own next door and moving halfway across the country.

Why would anyone want to go there?

She ran through a million questions in her mind before a loud clap of thunder startled her so much that the book flew from her hand. The sound seemed to trigger a break in the rain because the soothing sound of sky water had ceased, and it motivated her.

She quickly stood up, getting slightly dizzy as she gripped the hallway closet door strongly and rummaged around for a flashlight, clicking it on and off before grabbing a pair of jeans, a sweater and coat and throwing them over her body. Running back into her room, she pushed back a few shoes in her closet to get into a box, holding a Kimber 9mm. Her hands shook as she pulled the gun from the box, double checking the safety before stuffing it in the pocket of her jacket. Flashlight in hand, she used it to brighten the house. Moving quickly through the hallway, she pulled open a drawer in the kitchen to grab a pocket knife before leaving her house via the back door. While her mind kept telling her to lock the door, the scenarios in her head playing out negatively against locking a door.

What if someone was waiting for her?

She shut the door tightly and began to walk through the muddy lawn and opened the door in the fence connecting her sister’s yard to her own. There was a random hole in her sister’s yard, it looked hideous. Gennie avoided going across the yard since Gianna died so she wasn’t completely familiar with what should and shouldn’t be around.

The house was spooky amidst the crackling lightning and the lack of landscaping allowed vines of ivy to rope up the bricks of the home. A window seemed to be broken and Gennie got more frightened by the second. The rain started again and every step she took toward the house made her believe the rain was coming down harder than before. After what seemed like forever, she got to the door and gave it a hard twist.

At least the door is locked.

She lifted her arms, fingering the threshold of the door before hitting the key she was searching for. Her fingers were gross from the rain and dust that collected during the storm, making her digits slippery and keeping her in the rain as she struggled to unlock the door with the key. It took several turns before the door creaked open but Gennie stayed glued to the front.

It absolutely looked like someone was living here.

Several heavy blankets were thrown on the ground and a bucket was on the ground, catching leaks that may have sprang up from the storm. She listened closely for any action in the bathroom, praying no one was in the house. As she stepped inside, she silently wished that she had assisted in cleaning the home after Gianna’s funeral. She spent most of her mourning time thinking about what she could have done to prevent her sister’s suicide but now would have been a fantastic time to really know the house. There were too many corners around the foyer, to many closets someone could be in, waiting to ambush her. She wasn’t aiming to close in on the blankets but as she moved deeper into the house, she nearly tripped.

A nylon bag on the floor caught her foot and she dropped her flashlight.

The flashlight hit the linoleum with a large bang and Gennie panicked.

She grabbed the bag, running out of the house and through the yard. She let the wind shut the gate and she ran into her house, muddy shoes and all. Panting and afraid, she ripped off her clothes as she ran through her home, checking each door and window to confirm it’s security.

Why did you take the bag, dummy?

She chastised herself for picking up a random bag. If it was dirty laundry, she’d clean it and set it back in Gianna’s house, after all, someone is obviously staying there and I’m sure they want clean clothes.

But it could have been severed heads. Victim parts from a random local serial killer…although the smell of death and decomposition is impossible to ignore. Her nose was stuffy, she tried to sniffle through it to detect the smell of skatole or putrescine, but she couldn’t.

So she stared.

She stared at the bag until the world around her went quiet. The rain stopped and the thunder disappeared. There was a brief strike of lightning that illuminated the room, seeming to place a spotlight on the bag.

She had finally decided that she didn’t want the bag in her house and rushed to grab it to chuck it outside. As she lifted it, she noticed a hole. No repulsive smells, which eliminated the idea of laundry or victims. Turning around to look outside, she noticed a hundred dollar bill on the ground.

She dropped the bag.

Money? She knows it couldn’t be hers because she didn’t have any money, let alone cash. She carefully traced the bill, watching the holographic design, checking the back to make sure it was legal tender. She shoved it in her pocket before dropping to her knees and opening the bag.

She gasped as she did.

Stacks of money stuffed into the duffle, like someone had robbed a bank. Gennie never seen this much money before. Her job, barely paying for her utility bills, was her sole form of income. Her parents pay her property tax and Gianna left a sizeable amount to her in a trust. So this money couldn’t have been from a relative.

But if it belonged to the squatter, why would they occupy an abandoned house with no heat or running water?

The bag had noticeable traces of dirt smudged on the fabric.

Did someone bury it?

She didn’t know. As frightened as she was, she couldn’t hinder herself from wanting to know how much money was sitting in the bag in front of her.

And she sat there, in front of the back door, anticipating an angry gang coming to kill her for taking their money. She watched the dawn break and the sunrise, arriving to $19,900 as her alarm went off to wake her for her shift. Her head tilted in an inquisitive way and she hurried to stand and pull the hundred-dollar bill from her pocket, placing it with the loose bills as she attempted to avoid hyperventilating.

She wanted to shower but she knew she couldn’t stay here.

She dumped out the black nylon to make sure she had all the bills lying on the floor and an envelope tumbled out. Gennie ran into her room to grab a backpack, grabbing her wallet, her own journal and a new pack of cigarettes she was hoping she wouldn’t open. She came back into the dining room, stepping over the money to pick up the envelope and while the ink was slightly faded she absolutely recognized her name, written by her sister’s calligraphic handwriting.

A chill went down her body.

The last thing she heard from her sister was 4 years ago, she told her that the spaghetti was ready, a few weeks before she shot herself.

Gennie’s hands began to shake again. Not wanting to read a note that planned out the demise of her sister and she didn’t have to.

The calm morning that reeked of fresh rain provided Gennie with all the comfort she needed. She was loved and her sister, someone Gennie once called flimsy because she succumbed to the negativity of her emotions, had planned her sister’s way out of Reno because she knew she couldn’t get out on her own.

Gennie laughed as she stuffed the money into a backpack and headed to the Greyhound station, she had to go see her parents.

She didn’t bother to clean the mud she left on the floor in her rescue attempt of the money, but she had to run back into the room to grab her little black journal. She grabbed both, unlocking her back door and leaving the stranger’s book on the counter. She grabbed a pad of sticky notes, conveniently located on the counter, scribbling a “Thank You” and stamping it on the stranger’s journal. She reached into her bag to leave two stacks of cash next to the journal, before placing her own in the little pocket of her backpack and heading out.