Pinch Me

Me. This is me. This is my life. My mediocre life that I have come
to love and hate in equal proportion.

Wake up. Last night I dreamt. I dreamt, which is not something I do -
not normally. Either that or I don't remember it. My friends, they
think I'm kidding when I complain about my non-existant memory. So do
I. Some of the time.

Vivacity is not something I have often experienced. My life has, to
this moment, lacked any defining moments. There isn't much I can write
about that has actually happened to me - not for lack of skill, but
because of lack of happenings in my life. My beliefs are based on books
I have read, movies I have seen, songs I have heard. Not on 'life
experiences'. Those with a religion dismiss me. You have yet to be
enlightened they say. Enlightened to what? I have never understood
those people. I have never understood their 'faith'. Surely the very
fact that those who believe in the divine have to follow them with
'faith' makes the very act questionable. Surely they should be
following in absolution. Faith suggests they are all acting on a hunch.
They have dedicated their entire life to just a hunch. Sounds like fun
- going out on a limb, then they encounter a different
faith&;#8230;a different faith of a different people, who want the
opposing faith dead. Maybe not so fun.

Last night I had a dream so vivid, I awoke with a scream in my throat.
A scream in my throat that couldn't escape. Then I fell back to my bed.
I had been above my bed. Levitating. Someone had tried to squeeze my
throat shut, someone without a face. A cry for help emerged from my
lips as a weak willed rasp. Not that anyone would have heard. Except
that someone without a face. It is the only dream I can truly say I
have ever remembered in every detail after I have awoken.

Let me think about this rationally. Yesterday I did not read before I
fell asleep. I did not watch anything that could be classified as scary
- or even memorable. I fell asleep - with the radio turned on. Now it
is off. I do not recall turning it off. It is not set on a timer. Think
about it. The radio is set upon a set of drawers, about 18 yards across
from my bed. For it to be switched off, I would have to stand up. I
would have to walk across the room, and disconnect it from the mains,
because the off button does not function. To disconnect it from the
power, I would have to prise the plug from the power point in which it
is set, which is behind the set of drawers. The power point is behind
the drawers, which means I would have to reach my arm down the side and
pull the plug free. I do not recall doing this. It's also quite a task,
I would imagine, to perform in your sleep.

I live alone. I have done for four years. 30. Single. Secure job. I am
currently paying the mortgage on a nice suburban property. Why? I don't
know. Something to do I suppose. When I was younger, and living at
home, I was hooked on True Crime magazines and programs. I would fall
asleep with the knowledge that normal people were capable of the worst
crimes in the world. I used to wonder if I was capable of killing a
person. I was convinced that as I fell asleep I might awake and find my
family killed by a maniac I had never set eyes on. It never happened.
But I always knew it could.

Now I'm alone. Fresh from a dream in which someone tried to kill me.
And my radio is off. Maybe I've just gone deaf. Sometimes, I used to
wish I was deaf. Then there would be something special about me.
Something people would remember me by. Not only that, but I wouldn't
have to listen to the crap that people come out with at times. I
wouldn't have to listen to my own voice. But I know deafness is not the
problem, because I can hear something now. I can hear creaking. A door
stealthily clicking shut. I grab a wad of flesh between my thumb and
forefinger, and I PULL. Pinch me. It smarts, but I haven't woken up.
Perhaps that's because I'm already awake. Damn. There goes the back up
plan. This isn't a dream, and I'm shitting myself in anticipation. My
bowels are shifting and I can hear them downstairs. Wood against wood,
sliding like drawers being opened. What if they come to my room? What
if they have already been? Who would leave a job unfinished like that?
Maybe they changed their mind about strangulation, and went for a knife
to slit my throat instead? Here I am. Having a defining moment, and I'm
scared shitless. More scared than my first roller coaster, more scared
than my first horror movie - more scared than my first date.

I'm sweating like a horse, my throat feels like it's lined with glass
paper, my tongue is as thick as a slab of granite, and it's weighing my
whole face down.

I make a deal with God, Buddha, Allah&;#8230;if I live tonight I'll
never spit on the road again, I'll never swear or think a bad thought.
Never. I'd make my bed now and hide underneath it, Intensity style -
but there's too much junk underneath it. Too much shit I should have
thrown out, but never got round to doing. I get up out of bed, my heart
beating faster than a marathon runner's as he breaks the ribbon. He was
busting a gut to win, I'm busting my own to live. On my desk it lies
there glinting, unopened mail stashed beside it - a letter opener. It's
a replica sword, but too fucking short for my needs right now. I grip
it in my sweaty palm anyway - it's either that or a coat hanger.

I open the door to my room, my heart pounding so loud I could swear it
would rip open my chest and splat against the opposite wall. Knife in
hand, slipping in the sweat, my hair damp&;#8230;more creaks.
Someone is down there. The faceless bastard in my dream? Or someone who
will finish the job before I wake up? I set foot on the first set, my
stomach now threatening to lunge out of my skin and slop down the last
twelve steps. Those last twelve steps, which are carpeted in a fetching
brown shag-pile. A hell to vacuum, but I guess I'd need more than a
hover if my stomach juices were the problem. . My mother, she always
comments on the stairs when she visits. She tuts at a lot of things in
this home, like the smoke stained ceiling left by the last tenants. I
tell her I don't smoke, it was the last tenants&;#8230;but she just
tuts again then asks me about my father. Still seeing that tart? She
asks. I tell her I wouldn't know. I haven't seen or heard from him in
the last six months. Then she tuts again.

I'm on the eight step now, five to go. My dad always was a slob. My
mum was neurotic. Is neurotic. A speck of dust and she'll have a fit.
Why is it there? Get rid of it! It's dark. So dark I almost can't see.
The streetlight was shining in my bedroom window, but no light is here.
Something under my feet, other than carpet&;#8230;like dirt - but
no, it's dry. Flakey. Like ash maybe.

I can hear them now, moving around - in my house. The letter opener is
in my hand, my fingers gripped around the handle - the knuckles would
be white, if I could see them. Get out. Get the fuck out. I hear a
belch behind the door, I open it; quietly. My lounge is empty, the TV
is off, everything is dark. A flicker draws my eyes to the kitchen, a
flicker. It's a candle. He lit a damn candle for me. Sweet. I switch my
only weapon, a damn letter opener, into my other hand. Wipe the sweat
off my right hand onto my top, then give the knife back. A knife is it
now? I edge towards the kitchen - there's a light in there but no-one
is home. I creep in, my heart is suddenly going slower&;#8230;or is
it me? I hear the trickle of water - like a tap&;#8230;or someone
taking a piss. Yeah, that's more like it. The bathroom door is ajar,
but it's dark. Knife in hand, I slip through the door like a cat.
Behaving like a burglar in my own home.

And there he is. Some guy, in my house with his pants down and his
big, fat ass in my face. He's humming something familiar- he hasn't
even noticed me. I'm right behind him and he's still pissing away. What
is this guy - a reservoir? Knife in hand and I'm right behind him, this
guy is weaponless. I'm attacking him - in my own home.
"Okay. Okay. I have a fucking knife, so fucking turn around and put
your fucking hands up." My voice comes out dry, like a croak. I'm no
Robert De Niro. The guy freezes, and slowly raises his hands in the
air- his back still to me. I take a step back.
"Now turn the fuck around." He's obedient. He turns. I wait to see his
ugly face. My heart is beating like a drum.
"Jack?" His eyes are wide. So are mine. He sees the knife in my hand.
His pants still round his ankles. I collapse inwards, the knife falls
from my hand.
"Jack?" He's bending down, pulling up his pants now.
Ah shit. He breaks out into a grin, slapping me on the shoulder.
"Jackie boy, what's this about?" My heart slows, back to its normal
rate.
Ah shit. This is embarrassing.
"Dad."