Dreamers

A few nights ago I was having trouble sleeping. It was late when I'd gotten home and I'd gone to bed almost immediately. At first I chalked up the voices to my neighbors until one whisper sounded as if it were right in my ear. Jerking awake, I listened for a moment. Bad dreams, I thought. I drifted toward sleep again.

At 4AM I started awake again. No provocation, no reason - I was simply awake, suddenly and startlingly. I slowly reached for my knife - a simple affair: sharp enough to cut deeply, small enough to conceal - and checked every inch of my apartment, convinced that it was empty. It was. Bad dreams, I convinced myself. I went back to bed.

Last night, I received a letter from Benjamin. Along with it, in my mailbox, was a paycheck and a postcard from someone who clearly knows me. I was addressed as friend and asked about my family, by name. The writer said she had found where the jellyfish are. She said she would bring back pictures if she couldn't bring a living one.

A beautiful gypsy princess paid a visit to me shortly after the mail arrived. My bookshelves were rearranged to suit her whims. All of my Shakespeare was moved, and my books of poetry were hid entirely. The books were arranged according to their color and placed upside down on the shelf.

I awoke this morning, furious that I could not find the postcard. Benjamin's letter was also missing, though I remembered every word it said:

Dear Friend,
Same as it ever was.
Same as it ever was.
Same as it ever was...

-b.

I went to work, feverish and tired. I was an hour early so I sat and read. One hundred years of solitude packed into an hour. I was still feverish at work. I left early.

On the way into my apartment I checked my mailbox and found my paycheck. I paid my bills and made lunch. I've been standing in the hallway, looking right at my carefully organized bookshelf. Shakespeare next to poetry next to novels next to notebooks. Looking left at my bed, somehow made and waiting for a body to fill it.

I will not.