I stood outside her door for a few moments.  There was no answer.  I tried peering through the window on her door, but it was more for decoration than function.  All I could really tell was she had her living room and kitchen lights on.  I assumed she was busy in the kitchen, so I checked the knob—it was unlocked.  I opened the door and let myself in.

“Alice?  I hope you don’t mind I let myself in.”

I walked into the living room.  She was peering up at me as she lay comfortably on the couch with the television remote in her hand.  She sat up and patted the seat beside her.

“I kept it warm for you.”

I set down her plate on the coffee table in front of her.

“Wine?” I asked as I set my dinner in front of the seat she warmed for me.

“Yes, please.”

 

Night 4—Friday:

 

I had purchased a fresh bottle of merlot earlier that day and it was resting, unopened, on my counter.  I pulled my corkscrew from the silverware drawer and two glasses from the cupboard.  I opened the bottle and poured two generous glasses of the red.  I felt certain that the bottle would be gone by the end of the night and a taller glass meant more time before a refill trip.

I walked back to the living room; Alice was already working on her steak.  “It’s very good,” she said covering her mouth with her hand so I couldn’t see the small bite she had been chewing.  “Cooked just right.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said handing her the glass of wine.  “I hope you approve of the wine selection.”

“I’ll trust your judgment.”

She pointed to the seat beside her again.  “Make yourself comfortable.  I already put the movie in.”

I picked up the remote and pressed play.  The screen was filled with static for a moment before I could see the image of a woman looking back at me.  Her stare was intense, but comforting.  She reached out a hand to me—beyond the screen in which she stood, her hand came out to me as an offer to guide me.  I rose from my seat and took her hand.

 

Day @:  I>R34|V1day:

 

As I grabbed her hand, she pulled herself in close to me, placed her mouth next to my ear, and whispered to me, “You are dreaming.  You can fly.”

I believed her—everything she said.  I was in that place again.  In my dream.  Atop that damned building.  Tonight was the night I would fly.

I looked beyond the woman to the edge of the building—the platform of my triumphant flight.  She began to dissolve as I stared past her and I thought to myself, I am dreaming.  I can fly.  I stepped forward and, with each step, I kept repeating, “I am dreaming.  I can fly.”  I reached the end of the roof and stared forward—not down to the ground below, but forward to the open world that lay before me.  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  Stretching out my arms, I repeated to myself one last time, I am dreaming.  I can fly.

I opened my eyes and my alarm clock stared back at me.  The time on its face was 7:15am.  The sound emanating from it was louder than usual—it made my head pound.  I quickly turned it off and rolled to my other side.

 

Day 7—Monday:

 

My head ached, my mouth was dry, and my stomach was in knots.  There was no doubt in my mind that I had a hangover.  I concluded that I didn’t get much sleep, either, as I was incredibly tired.  I didn’t remember drinking, though—or anything about Sunday night.  I had a date with Alice, but I wouldn’t think we would get plowed.  Maybe a glass of wine with dinner and the movies, but I could taste the remnants of cheap brandy on my breath.

Maybe the date went poorly, I thought.  I didn’t want to think that I screwed it up, but I’ve never been above finding comfort in a bottle when the occasion called for it.  I considered calling her, but ultimately decided it would be best to talk to her in person.  I would see her at work and we’d sort things out there… hopefully.

I rose from my bed, took a muchneeded long, hot shower, scrubbed my teeth for a solid 5 minutes to get the stale taste of bottom shelf brandy out of my mouth, rinsed twice with Listerine, and dressed.  I still felt like hell, but at least I didn’t look like it—I thought, anyway, as I looked into the mirror.  The bags in my eyes were hanging pretty low, but my teeth were clean, my hair parted, and my body clothed.  Better than nothing.

I didn’t doubt that the day ahead would be nothing short of challenging, but I wasn’t bad off enough to call in sick.  I opened the door and stepped into the lobby.  I could see the concierge standing behind his desk looking over at me with a look that said, “How can I help you?” before he even had a chance to utter the same line.

 

Day ^:  7-41|day

 

“Sir, are you alright?” he asked me—a genuine concern in his voice.

I could feel my breathing labored and my eyes itched.  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said as I approached the desk.  Each step brought me closer to the man, and with each step I could see the expression on his face changing from that of concern to shock or empathy.  Maybe both.

“I saw you on the news last night.”

“Excuse me?”  I honestly had no idea what he was talking about.

“It was all over the news, what happened last night… I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about this.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”  Mostly because I was entirely incapable of talking about it.  I was oblivious about what happened and had no way of continuing the conversation.

“I apologize.  Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Well, what did you come here for?”

“I—“ I stopped for a moment confused as to why I did go into the hotel.  It was a striking image—one I had seen dozens of times in my dreams.  I stood beneath the green awning of this building every night before I fell.  I was hoping to find answers inside, but I was only met with confusion.  “I’m not sure,” I said before turning around toward the exit.

“Well, thank you for stopping in, and have a pleasant day.”  I could hear in the tone of his voice he was thinking something along the lines of, “Strange fellow.”

I opened the door and stepped inside.  Alice was lying on the couch; her light brown eyes wide open and staring up at me.

 

Night 6:  Sunday

 

Unblinking, they stared up at me.  Pale, lifeless, and framed by dried blood and tears.  Her mouth was open and contorted—frozen with an expression crying out in pain.  I could hear her screams in the silence echoing against the walls.  Her clothes were cut and bloodied and the knife that opened the holes in her chest was still plunged deeply in a wound.  She was gone.

Everything I held in my arms fell to the floor as I collapsed in a heap of tears and agony.  “She’s gone!” I cried out with an unrestrained intensity.

Dr. Taggart sat across from me in silence.  I could feel my body quivering as I fought to control the emotion—I couldn’t.  I began to cry violently as I shouted, “She’s gone!  She’s gone!”

 

Night 7:  Monday

 

He just sat there with a blank expression on his face as I sobbed uncontrollably in my seat.  The eruption of emotions came from nowhere and he seemed to be as surprised by it as I was.

“It doesn’t make sense!” I cried out.

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“All of it!  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Everything is happening out of order—I’m trapped in this twisted bastardization of reality.”

“Tell me what you mean, Tom.”  His voice was steady and calm—the damned doctor just kept calm despite my intense emotional outburst and it was pissing me off.

“I mean, I don’t even know why I’m here—how I got here—I’m just here!  I find myself jumping around from locations and…” I paused.  Something clicked.  The strange happenings, everything out of order with no reason as to why, my being here in the doctor’s office.  I was dreaming.  It all made sense when I thought of it like that.  Dreams are rarely ever linear and full of nonsensical translations between places.  This was all a dream.

“I am dreaming,” I stated my conclusion aloud.

The doctor was taken aback for a moment at my revelation.  He was wordless.

“I am dreaming and none of this is actually happening—none of this has actually happened.  I just need to wake up.”

“Tom,” he said, his voice bored and monotonous, “I know you’ve been through a lot, but this kind of reaction isn’t going to help you.”

“What kind of reaction?  Claiming that I’m dreaming?  That’s the only logical explanation to all this nonsense.  The real world follows rules, logic, and a linear sequence of events—what I’ve experienced is anything but.  I am dreaming, I just need to wake up.”

“Tom, look at me!” he raised his voice.  I was surprised.  “You are awake—this is all real.”

“No!  No it’s not!  I’m trapped in this hellish nightmare.  I need to wake up!”

I stopped for a moment to think.  Think of a way to wake myself.  Then it came to me, I need to fly.

I stood from my chair and walked toward the door.  Dr. Taggart rose from his as I marched closer to the exit, “Where are you going, Tom?”

“To fly,” I stated as I whipped open the door.

The evening sun was bright as it peeked above the horizon—I could see it just beyond the end of the building.  The towering monument to all my restless nights.

 

Day ~:  D|79day

 

I stood still for a moment to pause and admire the view.  It was beautiful despite all the pain it had caused me.

I took a step forward—I told myself, This is it.  I took another step, This is the night I fly.  Another, If I do this, I can wake up.  With an unwavering determination, I pushed myself closer and closer to the edge; telling myself with each inch of ground that if I could take the leap and fly, I could have my life back.  I just wanted some normalcy to return to my chaotic joke of an existence—to escape from this wretched dream in which I found myself trapped.

I stood on the edge of the building and looked forward—forward to where I would fly.  Somewhere beyond this place—this vividly imagined hell.  I stretched out my arms and stated aloud, “I am dreaming.  I can fly.”

 

Freefall is the creative property of Andrew T.S. Bedgood and is protected by US Copyright law.  Any use of this creative work without permission is prohibited.