by Ginger Scott
“Okay,” I say, lifting the small item from my bag and setting it on the center of the desk. The napkin flattens out, revealing the patinaed metal round with a dramatic flair.
“A bullet,” she says matter-of-factly. Still not impressed.
Not wanting to touch it with my hand, I lift the edge of the napkin and push it toward her an inch or two, rolling it so she can see the markings on its side. It’s numbered with an etching that seems to be made by hand. And the initials, J.H., match the very person I saw drop this bullet in my dream. When he ran. When I chased him into the dark.
In his dream.
In our dream.
14
Villain
I haven’t slept for more than an hour at a time in two days. It’s making me sick. REM is a real thing, I guess. I figured if I added up seven individual hours, I would be all right, but I guess the human brain needs better than that for a hard reset. I’m full of errors right how, nothing but glitches and desperate for a software update—a reboot. A fucking nap!
I’m afraid to sleep. Not until this thing is out of my body. I had a gun. I liked it.
I had a gun and I liked it.
I drank the power in.
There was a rush when I woke up and had the cash in hand. It was a mix of fear and confusion and adrenaline. Basically, a high. I can’t get a taste of something like that; genetically, I’m an addict at my core. But then I had my session with Ms. Esher. I went in ready to tell her everything, to bail on this project and forgo all of the money coming my way. Yet when I sat there, the lies spilled off my tongue.
I made up a dream. I was consistent with the story. It was a monotonous tale with a harmless outcome. I basically retold my favorite childhood memory about being a kid at the petting zoo. I made myself my current age for the dream, and I didn’t put any people in with me so I wouldn’t mess it up or have to decipher who they were and what they represented.
We talked about the peace I crave compared to the chaos I live in thanks to my mom. The entire time, all I could think about was how the gun felt. I caught myself squeezing my right palm more than once, flexing my fingers and imagining the grip. Soaking in the heat when it fires, though I’ve never gone that far. I want to go back there and be King so badly it terrifies me. That version of me—it’s inside me somewhere. It’s hungry for power.
You feel weak for long enough? Kinda makes sense that this is what you wish for. That’s how I rationalize it in my head anyhow.
I’ve avoided Damsel as much as I avoid sleep. Her texts; her hovering around my class door during fifth hour, the only place she knows I show up. I like shop class. I like to saw shit and use heavy tools. I’ve been rushing out of class and skipping my last hour just to avoid her. I don’t think she even knows I’m in the trig class she tutors for. Hell, maybe I’m not anymore. I haven’t been in almost three weeks.
The only person I can talk to about what I’m going through is my fake father and supplier. His IQ doesn’t prepare him for my questions, which is actually perfect. It seems I’m not prepared for real answers. If I were, I would have told Ms. Esher the truth and let her analyze some shit for real.
“How about I just watch you sleep, man?” Sal tosses a dusty pillow on the futon in the break room at his work building. I’m not supposed to be here; security is actually pretty tight. I tucked myself behind a bunch of pharma boxes on a dolly so he could roll me in. I need a place to be this afternoon that isn’t home, where Paul has been for two days straight. I think he was fired from another job. That makes four this year. Him being around so much is the other reason I haven’t slept. What if I have another dream and end up killing him? I know for a fact that fantasy lives in my subconscious.
“What, are you just gonna stare at me? Watching someone doesn’t keep them from dreaming.” Sal thinks this pill gives me night terrors. I guess for most people, that’s what it would be.
I press my palms into my eyes. They almost burn with the hunger for sleep. My vision blurs for a second or two when I drop my hands and look up at Sal. He could almost be professional, wearing scrubs and missing the three piercings that usually decorate his face.
“I’ll stare at you if I have to.” He leans back against the table at the opposite end of the room, his eyes as heavy as mine. He’d last six minutes, then doze off right there on the table, at work.
“Your shift isn’t long enough.” I fall back into the tough mattress and let my arms fold over my eyes, indulging for just a minute. The wave comes fast; I force my eyes open so I don’t drift off. “You’ll forget I’m here, then the next shift will come in and bust my ass.”
“Yeah.” Sal sighs. “You’re probably right.”
It’s quiet for a beat, then we both let out a short laugh.
“I should go home and shower. That has nothing to do with sleep, but I’m getting a little gross,” I say, forcing myself to sit back up. I pull at my oily hair, molding it into shapes with my fingers.
“Dreadlocks are in, yo.” Sal smirks at me, then reaches behind his back to grab the envelope wrapped in tape and rubber bands, the real reason I came. He tosses it to me, hitting me in the chest. I hug it like a football and shake it to measure the sound.
“Same?” The package feels just like last week’s. Business has been slow. I wonder who else he supplies and if they’re making more or getting the really good shit. He might be my fake dad in a pinch, but Sal’s a dirty businessman first.
“Roll me out?” I slide back into the space on the dolly behind the stack of boxes, but he laughs hard enough that he has to bend at the waist.
“Dude, we don’t roll out the trash. Psh, what are you thinking?” He waves a hand at me.
I glare at him, letting the cardboard boxes fall in piles to the floor. He groans, pissed he has a mess to clean. It’s not like pills rolled around the floor.
“How did you plan to get me out?” I know there won’t be a good answer.
“I don’t know. I didn’t, I guess? Ha! Yeah, we probably should have thought about that, bro. Sorry, man.” He’s pacing a little, but not like he has a fire lit under his ass. More like he’s entertained.
“Sal! I’m gonna need to leave!” I hold my arms out, palms up, my envelope of stolen drugs balanced in the right one.
“Right,” he acknowledges.
He makes an expression like cartoon characters make when they think, all kinds of literal. Before he can bring a finger to the side of his mouth to tap and hum about this pickle we’re in, I snap at him.
“Give me your scrubs.” I snap a few more times when he remains frozen.
“I’m not getting naked in front of you, dude!”
I sigh heavily.
“We’re trading. Just turn around or whatever. Here, take this.” Reaching behind my head, I pull up my sweatshirt and tug it free from my body. I toss it to Sal. I unbuckle my jeans, hoping like hell he can zip them up enough to stay on his body. He’s at least two sizes bigger than me.
After a few minutes of tossing shirts and pants at one another, we face each other in our swapped outfits and size up the mission. I hold my palm out for his badge, but he clutches the other end before giving it over completely.
“How am I going to get this back?” he asks.
I jerk hard and move toward the door.
“I don’t know, bro. I guess you’ll have to think of something.” I keep walking, ignoring his tantrum behind me. I push through the doors and never once look up, making myself as normal-seeming as possible for any cameras capturing this. When I make it to the parking lot, I find his shitty five-speed that’s never locked. I toss his badge on the seat so he can at least come out to get it. I’ll keep the scrubs, because damn, these are comfortable. I move quickly, putting distance between me and the pills, and the place I got them. School is out soon, which means my linemen should be showing up for refills. Maybe someone else will buy. I’m feeling rather entrepreneurial today.
At first, I can’t tell if it’s a dream, h
er leaning against the alleyway wall like that. My vision blips, casting the dark figure over her form, the match near perfect in size and shape. My stride hitches and I trip a little over my feet. She giggles but masks it because she’s also pissed.
“You’re a hard man to track down.” She pulls one leg up, bending her knee but leaving her foot flat against the wall.
“Why are you wearing a sport coat with mom jeans?” It occurs to me as I speak that I’m still holding an envelope full of scripts. I tuck it in the pocket of the blue drawstring pants, but the weight is too much, so fuck it. I leave it out in the open, right here in my palm. It’s not like she doesn’t know what I am and do.
“You have no right picking on my mom jeans while you’re in pajamas.” I kinda love that she doesn’t get offended by the mom jean bit. She strikes right back. Far cry from the girl who cried. I wonder if it’s the pill bringing out more of her tough side.
“Excuse me, but, um, this is high-grade hospital attire, thank you very much.” I pull one pant leg out to the side at the hip. These duds are seriously roomy. My modeling move makes her laugh a little. She’s cute, mom jeans and all.
“Whatcha got there?” She nods toward the envelope.
I hold it in front of my body and flip it around, looking it over while I think of a lie.
“You don’t wanna know,” I eventually come out with, squinting as I peer up at her. Her eyes move from the contraband, and when our gazes meet, I offer a short, half-mouthed smile. “I mean, I’ll tell you but—”
“No, it’s cool.” She knows.
I lean against the wall on the opposite side of the alley. This place isn’t quite the same as it was in my dream. I see the differences now. There aren’t trash bins out or stacks of crates. It’s a clean-ass alleyway, minus the poorly covered dabs of graffiti. I think the guy who owns the drug store even rakes the gravel.
All of our questions weigh heavy in this small space. There’s maybe ten feet of well-maintained ground between us, not a weed in sight, yet I feel we’re both drowning in a thick jungle. The strangest part is that sensation is suffocating both of us. She wears the struggle on her face, subtle things like her tight jaw and worried eyes.
I wish she would somehow read my mind, maybe call me out on being a bad person for liking what I did—what I felt in my dream. I want her to hate me a little for it, which is messed up. But for some reason, I’ve made her my moral compass, which isn’t fair since I hardly know her. I know her enough to care what she thinks of me, though.
“I met with Ms. Esher again. I like to dress nice for meetings.” She’s talking about the coat.
“Mom jeans are professional now, huh?”
She grimaces and holds me hostage with her glare. I should cut it with the mom jean bit. Maybe instead I should talk about her silky hair, and that she’s not wearing it in a braid or a bun the way she usually does.
“I’ve talked to her twice now. About my dreams?” Her words lilt with question. She’s fishing for my details, for me to share. I won’t. I can’t.
“That’s good. You’re getting something out of it then, huh?” I’m careful with my expression, forcing my pulse to remain steady. My nostrils flare from the pressure. She notices.
“I am. You?”
I laugh away her question and shrug, giving myself a chance to look down at the ground and kick at the stones.
“I dunno, maybe. I guess.” My face twitches from the effort not to grin, but I hold her gaze anyway. I won’t swallow down the dry sensation in my throat. I’ll let it choke me first.
“We could talk about our journeys, if you want. I mean, I don’t really have anyone to talk to about it, so . . .”
“Journeys.” I repeat the word with a laugh. It’s more of a nervous reaction, but it comes out kind of offensive. She flinches a bit.
She nods slowly, stepping away from the wall and moving around me, careful to maintain distance. I turn my body as she passes, noticing the way her arms and legs move. When she stops and tilts her head, her sad eyes landing on me one more time, something familiar tickles at the back of my neck.
“You’re right. We should probably just do our own thing.” She stops walking despite leveling me with this masked ultimatum. I’m not going to bite. We should do our own thing. I very much doubt she wants to stand out here and sell with me.
“Yep.” Tongue bit by my molars, I stare her down and move my envelope from one hand to the other, a subtle reminder of what I’m all about.
She takes two full breaths, her shoulders rising twice with the fullness of her lungs. The strong version of herself is battling with the weaker one, and I hope like hell the frightened, timid and unsure nerd wins and she runs out of this alley. There’s a buzz in my bones, a fight-or-flight sensation that rings all the way to my knuckles, and my dream is burning at the forefront of my mind. I visualize the gun, lifting it and cocking it just enough to push her over the edge. I sense the way the slow grin feels on my lips. I taste the venom.
She breaks the boundary with one step, moving closer to me, and I grip the envelope with both hands, squeezing hard to keep the beast asleep. I’m so tired, I’m not sure whether I’m awake or dreaming, and I’m not sure which is safer for her.
“Before I go, I want to give you something.” She reaches into her jacket pocket. My right hand moves toward my back, feeling along my waistband. If I had the gun right now, that’s where it would be. I hate that I know that; I hate that thought. It runs through my mind without warning. My instincts, they’re poison.
I lick my lips to stave off the watering sensation in my mouth as she moves close enough to touch. I lift my brow, feigning curiosity as she pulls something small enough to hide in her palm from her jacket.
Her hand is remarkably steady as she reaches toward me. I’m pretty sure I’ve sweat a palm print into the paper of the envelope I’m holding. I let go with my right hand to meet her halfway, my open hand itching for the weight of whatever she’s concealing. She rests her fist on my palm and my fingers wrap around her touch on instinct, like a Venus flytrap. For a brief second, my eyes flit up to her face, expecting to see a startled expression, but instead her gaze is fixed on the spot where her hand meets mine.
The bold girl in front of me right now.
Purposeful. Determined.
A tinge of disappointment stings in my chest. I’m way more affected by that touch than she is. The monster in me kicks back; it doesn’t like the shift in power. I hope I’m dreaming this part because I don’t want to become more of him.
“I think you dropped this.” Her fingers unfurl, breaking free of my hand and leaving a bullet at the center of my lifeline.
She steps back, her gaze lifting from my hand and up my chest until our eyes meet. Her stare is challenging, and that swallow I fought damn hard against happens.
“I don’t know what this is,” I say.
“I think you do.” She pushes both of her hands in her jacket pockets, turning without adding more detail. I’m not sure whether she is leaving to make a point or because a car full of football players just rolled up at the corner. Either way, I really don’t know what this bullet is from. I only saw the gun.
Before my customers get too close, I glance over the tiny metal piece in my hand, rolling it gently to expose the small engraving. If I were arrogant enough to claim my kills, I’d carve my initials in the side just as they are on this bullet.
Only, I’ve never held a bullet, or shot a gun.
At least . . . I don’t think I have.
15
Cowboy
Jim hands me the leather satchel and an unclasped envelope with yesterday’s pay. I don’t have to count it. Jim is always honest. Besides, I don’t have much to spend it on—no girlfriend or apartment. I actually don’t think I live anywhere, and I’m deeply okay with it.
The lines are blurring; I’ve noticed that over the last week. It’s my seventh sleep on Morpheus, and my seventh straight dream in the same location, wor
king the same job. Jim’s wife always loads the satchel with fresh-baked bread, some cheese, and a water bottle. There’s a post with a well a few miles out, and I fill up there throughout the day. Nobody for miles. Just me and the cattle.
They call me Cowboy, so I guess that’s what I became.
I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be aware in these dreams, but I am. I try to stay longer, to hold on to sleep a few extra minutes each morning. I didn’t set an alarm today. Someone on the other side will wake me up in time to get to films. Dad will wake me up. He’ll have protein ready to shove down my throat along with his scouting report for Southern Lutheran High next week. They’re a small school, but ranked high. We’re actually not the favorite, which means he is extra up my ass. I’d like to stay on this side where nobody gives a shit about football.
“Two cattle were found dead early this mornin’, so you keep your eyes out when you’re up there.” Jim practically chews his words. The only indication he’s speaking is in the movement of his graying, curly beard.
“A’right,” I say.
I knew what to do from the very first time. I woke on the ground from a nap, a rock for a pillow and a burlap cover to keep the chill off. Even the jeans and flannel felt as if they were really my own. Probably because they are. Over here.
I climbed on the horse and rode back here, to Jim’s. It’s a modest ranch home that looks as if it’s probably cold as hell in the winter, but seems to suit him and his wife just fine. I don’t know how I knew that’s where I belong; I just did. I rode slowly, the sunrise painting the sky in swaths of purple and pink, a fine mist washing the dust from my face and soothing my lungs. The earth smelled. That’s it, it just smelled. I’ve never smelled earth before, but the scent stayed with me the entire dream, lingering when I woke and went to school and met with Ms. Esher.
I come back here every night to work. I don’t know where the money goes that Jim gives me. Maybe it evaporates. I don’t care.
