His outline is getting larger. Stops walking. Stands over me. He is taller, more formidable, than even I remember. He raises his hands. Above his head. He is holding something.
He lowers his hands and, just as he is about to plunge the razor into me, just as he is about to kill me, the rope is released, and I am freed. I sit up, like a mummy rising from a tomb, and lunge madly with my fists. My punches go nowhere near him, for he casually takes a step back, just watches me.
After all, this is not real. This is all just a dream. I have been tricked twice but, I try to reassure myself, not really.
Smiling from the uppermost corner of his mouth, his look is one of pity. That look is familiar. I cannot hurt him, for he is not really there. Lowers his arms. Even though he is not real, I still expect him to plunge the razor into my chest. I feel nothing. He doesn't want to kill me. Not yet. Not this painlessly. Killing me in my bed, in my sleep, would be no fun now, would it? Instead, he plunges the razor into the mattress, just inches from my body, most likely tearing the bed sheet.
His outline becomes smaller. And then, he is gone. Back the way he came.
I don't know how much time passes before I wake, but when I do, it feels like hands are strangling my windpipe, for I can barely breathe. My whole body is drenched in sweat, stinging my half-opened eyes, causing me to blink. Shapes and colours make up the room, and they move around, just won't stay still, not for a single fucking moment.
I turn to Erica. She is there, lying in the bed next to me, cheek resting against the plump, fluffy pillow. My wet, sticky hand grazes the curve of her back. Her body peacefully rises and falls. She is asleep. Completely unaware. Thank God. I haven't hurt her this time, not spilt blood. Planting a kiss on her forehead, she responds with a purr, a helicopter taking off. Turning away, I lie on my back. My head sinks into the comfort of the pillow as I stare up to the ceiling. The warmth from the cabin begins to dry my damp, salty skin, and yet still, there is a refreshing breeze blowing through the door.
There is a vibration: a muted, stifled buzz. What was that? Where did it come from? I sit up. It came from the edge of the bed, by my feet. It sounded like a mobile phone. Pushing my hand underneath my pillow, I take hold of my phone. I move more carefully now. My hand slides under Erica's pillow. She stirs, but remains asleep. My hand grazes her phone.
I scramble to the bottom of the bed on my hands and knees, just like I did when I was a kid, racing against my older brother in his bed (he always won). Erica's purr grows louder. Usually, this would excite me. Now, it frightens me. I slow down my movements, make them more deliberate and composed, as the flat of my hands explore the bed sheets.
There is something there. At the bottom of the bed. I pick it up. It is a phone. But not mine. Not Erica's. I click on the phone; the screen lights up.
You have a nice home, Jeffrey. I do so enjoy popping by for a visit. Let us keep in touch on this phone from now on. It has been too long. Sorry to have disturbed you tonight. We're coming up to the halfway point of the month. Enjoy the rest of your night.
DAY FIFTEEN 15TH JUNE 2018
This is what normal life is supposed to be like, I think. This is the sort of place decent, honest, salt-of-the-earth people go to for recreation. It is a good, clean, honest family venue, the sort of establishment that society expects you to go to.
I can't remember the last time I was in a place like this, and it feels like these decent, honest, salt-of-the-earth-people are looking at me, that they are privy to my secrets, they know I don't belong here, that they have a charlatan in their midst.
The video games have developed beyond all recognition since my days. We'd cross the bridge into town in our school uniforms and then play Space Invaders and Pac Man in tiny, darkened rooms, buttons greasy from the chips we'd hurriedly eaten on the pavements outside. We huddled around the machines in packs of three or four, twenty pence coins (dinner money) disappearing at an alarming rate within the slots. For many of us, on the weekends it was either here, the snooker halls or our bedrooms. Steve Davis could either have become World Snooker Champion, or just really fantastic at Donkey Kong. I, on the other hand, remain shit at snooker, but I always saved Pauline.
Now everything is fresh, bright, wholesome and expensive. The flashing lights and occasional, exuberant noises, though, are a familiar reminder of a misspent youth. The arcade is just a side attraction, something to keep you occupied, keep you slotting those pound coins, help pay the rent. The real, committed hardcore gamers have red eyes and white skin because they live in their bedrooms. This is for amateurs, weekenders. You are not supposed to come here just to play video games; but please feel free to spend as much money on them as you can whilst you are here. Luckily, money doesn't serve much purpose for me.
Jenny sips weak coffee from a cardboard cup. Pulling a face, she pushes the cup away, apparently surprised that the coffee is lukewarm, even though I bought it for her over twenty minutes ago.
