Nightmare

It was cold. Fall had descended upon the town like a quiet shade, the transition from summer nearly unnoticed, except for that all too familiar shiver that travels down your spine as you enter the cold air from the warmth of a heated home. The leaves have already abandoned their previous residence on the trees for the barren ground of Lake Street. Leaves, of course, that Tom knew that he would have to rake tomorrow when he woke, among the other cleaning that would lie ahead of him...

It was Friday night. Tom was home from his usual night of hanging out with friends after a long week of school, and like most of us who possess human qualities, was ready for bed. He slowly dragged his body into his room and locked the door behind him. He went around and mechanically locked the windows like he did every night. With much relief he threw himself into bed and got situated. After his shackles were securely locked tight, he drifted off to sleep, chanting his nightly mantra as his voice got softer and softer, "Not tonight, not tonight, not tonight..."

It was dark. Tom was in what seemed to be an abyss, devoid of anything but himself and himself alone. In the distance, an ethereal figure came into view, at which Tom looked with the most puzzled expression. He was approached by the ghastly apparition. Tom went as if to question the imposing figure standing before him, but the spectre raise a hand quickly, as if to instill silence in the confused boy. There was a long, awkward silence. One of those silences, those silences that are so fragile, a mere whisper could shatter it into a thousand pieces. The silence was broken by the stranger presented before him with two simple words, "I Know."

It was bright. What had at once seemed like a black abyss was now lit ablaze, Tom surrounded on all sides by fire. He was encirlced, trapped in with the figure before him. "He knows?" said Tom, with a trembling lip, like that of someone who knows impending doom is knocking on their doorstep, "He knows," he said again, as if affirming the fact to himself. Tom made a move at the figure, but the figure dissapated, and Tom was left in the burning ring of fire knocked out cold.

It was Saturday morning. Tom sat straight up in his bed, sweating as if sitting to close to a fire. The sweat poured from him and leaked onto his bed surrounding him. "It was a dream," he said, "just a dream." Then, as he lifted his arm to wipe his brow, he saw it soaked with blood. After a quick analyzation of his surroundings, he realized not only he, but his entire bed was bathed in blood. "No," he said, "it wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare." Tom picked up his unlocked shackles and tossed them on the blood stained bed; he then proceeded to close the window, since he was shirtless and was feeling the draft. "Well, time to clean, I guess."

It was Sunday morning. Tom sat at the breakfast table enjoying some eggs and bacon. His father held up the paper to read it and Tom saw the headline on the front page: "Local Man Presumed Murdered Before House Fire." Tom smiled.