I wake thrashing in the night, bedclothes soaked through and enfouled. Something is wrong, there is an intruder in the darkness. I don’t remember having dreamed but there is fear and panic and I cannot waste time, for I must arm myself with whatever is close at hand to defend my body and defend my home and I reach for the bedside lamp to douse the room in light to find the intruder (monster) standing over me or my sleeping wife who’d never hurt anyone, not purposely, not ever, and as quickly as my mind seeks her out in the darkness it returns with impossibly horrific images of her corpse and with a flick of my hand the light snaps on and of course there is no one but the intruder of consciousness within pulling me back into dream and then I begin to remember. I look to my wife sleeping (ostensibly) peacefully and there’s a flashlight clutched tight in my hand raised to attack and I set it down gently, though the panic has not yet abated in full, for I know that the stranger lurks still in the room, it is I, the stalking assassin of my dreams.
TJ McAvoy Fiction, literature, prose, writing 1 Minute
Published by TJ McAvoy
Primary influences, in no particular order: Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Melville, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy