Dear Time's Waste Page 2

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  “La vie est un rêve.”

  Greg awoke with a frightened start when the screeching buzzer of his alarm clock repeatedly cut through the darkness. As the fog of sleep began to thin, hazy dreamscapes and blurred faces began to dissolve and descend into the depths of Greg’s mind. Fragments of his hallucinations materialized behind his eyes: a burning ivory spire, a corpse hanging from a street lamp and Paul’s voice uttering unfamiliar words into Greg’s ear. Still shuddering with the terror of being ripped from sleep, Greg propped himself up on his elbows, his breathing still short and quick and his heart racing. Accustomed to the gentle blue backlight of the alarm clock on the bedside table, Greg was bewildered to find the source of the drone displayed the time in sharp red digits from beside Greg’s pillow on the bed. As he reached for the device, Greg also noticed that the bed was pushed up against a wall, gently illuminated by the red glow of the shrieking timepiece. Baffled, Greg ran his fingers over the alarm clock before pressing a stiff plastic button that disabled the repetitive buzzing. Rolling to his other side towards Ann, Greg reached out into the darkness to touch her, but instead felt empty air before contacting what felt like Belle’s smooth fur. Concerned and confused, believing he must be sleeping on the couch instead of the bed he shared with his wife, Greg quickly sat up when his head collided with a solid surface directly above him. Clutching his skull as a sharp pain rushed through his head, Greg seethed while he searched the darkness for Ann, his sweeping hand cutting through empty air as he reached out into the void.

  “What the hell?” Greg mumbled under his breath. After swinging his legs out towards the empty space adjacent to him, Greg found carpeted floor with his bare feet and stood up tentatively as he eyed the mysterious shape into which he crashed his head. Tracing the shape with his hand, Greg felt wood before his fingers also stroked a corner of cloth. Frozen in the night, Greg recognized the shape of a bunk bed—his bunk bed—before him.

  “That’s impossible.” Greg had not slept in a bunk bed since he was much younger, when he lived with his mother after the divorce. Sliding his hand along the bedframe, Greg navigated through opaque shadows before he found a door outlined in the soft glow of light. Desperate to open the door and proceed with what he surmised was a vivid nightmare, Greg paused as his eyes fell across the familiar shape of a light switch just beside the doorframe. Greg’s heart, feeling like it was trying to fight its way out from under his ribs, hammered in his chest as he shakily reached for the light switch and lifted it. As the overhead light blinked on, Greg recoiled in pain as the room was drenched in blinding white. Overly comfortable with the darkness, Greg’s eyes burned, but as he recovered, he was able to positively identify his old bunk bed, as well as his old television set, his old desk, and his grade school uniform suspended on a hanger from the top of a closet door.

  It quickly dawned on Greg that he was no longer in his and Ann’s house.

  “Hey bro, what the heck?”

  A child’s drowsy voice emanating from the top of the bunk bed interrupted Greg’s thoughts. As Greg turned his head to where the words had come from, he found the babyish face of his brother, Christian, whose eyes were clenched shut against the intrusive light as he peered down at Greg from over the edge of his mattress.

  “What the heck, man?” Christian repeated somnolently.

  Christian was supposed to be twenty-two years old, Greg thought. Now he looked like he was six. “Sorry, bro.” Stammering, Greg apologized, but nearly screamed in shock when his own voice came out weak and shallow. He reached back for the switch on the wall and noticed that his tattoo was absent from inside his wrist. Stuttering, Greg said, “Go back to sleep, okay?”

  “Yeah, no duh.” Christian mumbled as he disappeared into the shadows. Standing petrified in the renewed darkness, a trembling Greg found it impossible to process a single coherent thought.

  “Where’s Ann?

  “Where’s my home?

  “What is this?

  “And where am I?”

  Greg knew exactly where he was, but he refused to give the notion credence by proclaiming it. Instead, believing himself to be deeply immersed in an intense dream, Greg gripped the knob of the bedroom door and expected to find a desert or some unusual landscape on the other side. Resolute, Greg pulled the door open and simply found a hallway. Peeking out into the corridor, Greg instantly recognized the passage from the duplex he and Christian had lived in when they were boys. Turning to his left, he found a closed door to what he knew was his mother’s bedroom. Turning to his right, Greg followed the pathway with his eyes until it ultimately stretched away into the kitchen, which he could see was barely illuminated by a soft light from around the corner. He stepped out of the bedroom and began walking away from his mother’s quiet chambers. Greg knew that the next entryway on the right side led into their living room, a wide area with a plush chair, a sofa and an aging desk with a computer on it. Compelled, Greg poked his head through the doorway and switched on the light. His memory of the room was brought to life before him exactly as he remembered it. Switching the light off again, Greg continued down the short hall until he found the first door on the left side, to the bathroom. Greg nudged the restroom door open and found the gently lit shapes of a free-standing bath tub, a pedestal sink and a toilet on the other side. Stepping into the latrine, Greg centered himself on the sink, facing an eyeless, hazy and shadowy silhouette staring back at him in the mirror above the faucet.

  Greg attempted to reassure himself. “This has to be a dream.” His young, falsetto voice continued to disturb him. “I’ve had crazier ones than this. The one just now, definitely…” Breathing out through his nose, the stillness surrounding him only dotted by the drips of water leaking from the spout below, Greg reached out towards the door and located the bathroom light switch. Giving it a quick flick, he nearly blinded himself again with incandescent radiance. As his eyes gradually adjusted, Greg was able to meet the figure that stared back at him in the looking glass. The familiar, wide-eyed face was smooth and unmarked by acne, the cheeks were slightly fuller from overeating and the hair was unkempt and long. Greg lowered his alarmed gaze from his reflection to his body, where he was appalled to find a boyish and pudgy frame underneath him. He lifted his hands, noticing that his arms were unmarked by tattoos or scars and that his wedding band was missing too. His chest was bare and somewhat flabby, the hairs on his arms were pale, and Greg’s legs looked impossibly smooth, as if he had shaved them.

  “There’s no way. There’s just…” As he lifted his young, stunned gape back to the mirror, Greg felt his mind splinter and devolve into disorder. Under a halo of fluorescent light, encircled by silent shadows, and encumbered by memories of a life he was not certain he lived, Greg screamed at his horrorstruck reflection.

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  This is the first short story I have ever written to completion. I have another world that is begging to be created and put to paper, one that I have been building for over ten years, and I will bring that world to life soon. However, I had to pen this particular tale as soon as I thought about it.

  Thank you so much for reading. I genuinely hope you enjoyed this story or are at least intrigued by it. Send me some feedback or leave a review if you have a moment. I would love to engage with a reader for the first time. Much obliged.

  Joseph Mitchell