Whimpered Word.

It’s really rare that I remember my dreams vividly. Usually I’ll wake up and maybe remember certain scenes or moments, but soon enough they disappear. It’s strange, because I love dreams and I used to be able to remember them all the time. It is awesome fun to analyse them and find why you dreamt what you did. You always dream for a reason. The best thing about dreams is that they don’t have to make sense always, but they never stop being relevant. You can lie to yourself, but not to your subconscious. Not to your dreams.

I used to keep a dream journal when I was really into lucid dreaming. What lucid dreaming is, is when you’re in a dream and you know you’re dreaming, so you can start to control it. When I frequently had lucid dreams I mainly just made myself fuck a variety of different women. At least when you fuck in dreams it can’t destroy a relationship. Eventually though, I stopped being able to control my dreams and shortly thereafter I just stopped trying and ended the dream journal. The dream I had when I fell unconscious though, was one of the most vivid I’ve ever had, I think. Though I couldn’t control it, merely lived it out as if it were reality.

I woke up, in my dream, on the fold-out couch in Damo’s lounge room and my head was in agony. For some reason though, the pain seemed normal. It ached, but in my state, I didn’t question why. It was just an every day thing. And for whatever reason I didn’t feel weird about waking up at Damo’s house. I felt as if I belonged there. I pushed the blanket spread over me away and sat up, looking around. It was really bright. Wince-inducingly so. I felt like a drink so I got up off my bed and went to make my way to the kitchen. On the first step, I tripped. I managed to catch myself on the ground before getting up and turning to see what I’d tripped on. Over, with a selection of my clothes now tipped on the floor, was a crate. Next to the crate were two of my bags, both looking very full. And I just turned around and went to the kitchen without even opening them. As if them being there was completely normal. I got to the sink and fixed myself some water.

“Up and about so early?” came a playfully sarcastic comment from Damo’s sister, whom, in my dream, lived with Damo. Weird thing is, Damo doesn’t have a sister. Still, like my headache, I didn’t question it. It felt normal. Things like that happen in dreams, I guess. I turned to face her and saw her smiling face. She was drinking and looked so familiar. Her face, I remember, was beautiful, though it is the one thing from the dream that I couldn’t recall clearly.

“Is it late?” I asked, sipping on my water.

“Midday.” She responded.

“Where’s Damo?” I followed up.

“Working, I think.” Damo works at a trendy clothes store, because he’s handsome and all. They only hire “beautiful” people at those kinds of places. Those kinds of places are only relevant to the coolest and sexiest people around – and the sore losers who try to convince themselves that they could fit into such an elitist group. I took another sip of my water.

“Shit.” I said. “I guess you’ll have to be my entertainment for the moment.” She smiled warmly. Damo’s sister was such a friendly person.

“Sorry, not today. I’ve got to go to work, myself, soon.”

“What? At this time of day?”

She nodded. “Yep. Believe it or not, there are some people who’d rather drink beer than water at midday.” I looked at my drink, then back at her and frowned jokingly.

“Hmmm. So you mean I’ll need to find my own entertainment?”

“’Fraid so.” She paused, then took a slightly more serious tone. “Why don’t you do some writing?”

I shook my head and eyed the wall. “Nah.” The idea of writing repulsed me, for some reason. After a while I looked to Damo’s sister again. Her eyes were on me and she looked kind of sympathetic.

“So…” she laboured, her look and tone becoming increasingly serious, “how did your session go yesterday?”

And then I was awoken by a slap on the face, it felt like. And a voice. An eerily familiar one. Katya’s. It took me a moment before I could tear my mind from the dream. I remembered it so clearly. Every word spoken, every gesture and movement made. The one thing that was most vivid though was the feeling I held inside the entire time. Through all the playful cit-chat and stuff, deep within me was an air of unbearable depression. An air though, that I wouldn’t let out. This air was shaken out of me when I suddenly realised where I was.

Katya’s parents house. Just above me, wide-eyed and panicked was Katya’s face. As soon as I saw her, she backed away slightly, breathing in deeply with relief, maybe. I rolled to my side to get up. That was when my memory dawned on me. When I saw Steven’s body. Holy fuck. I rolled onto my back again and pushed myself up. Katya had entered her parents’ house and found me and her father, both knocked out, on the floor, beside each other. What the hell had I subjected her to?

She rose from her kneeling position and so did I. There was an urgency in her demeanor that I’d never seen before.

“What the hell happened here?” She was frantic, with good reason. I looked back at him, as though seeing him would help my final words. What I noticed was weird. A towel was wrapped tightly around where I’d stabbed him. I guessed Katya had done it to stop the bleeding. Of a dead man? I turned to her again, confused. “He lunged at me and somehow I ended up with the knife. I killed him.” My explanation was weak, but I could barely think. Katya’s apparent panic though, made mine seem insignificant.

“He’s not dead.” She said as she looked around the room, as if a solution would just appear somewhere. Her eyes were darting quickly. And her revelation astounded me.

“What?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Her hands just raised and grabbed her hair, pulling it back, thinking, trying to register the madness.

“Shit, Owen. What did you do?” I tried to answer, but she repeated herself. “What did you do? I told you not to come here. Why did you do this?” And she was in tears and seeing her in such a state again made everything worse. My guilt, my fear, my uncertainty all rose immensely. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done, Owen, I thought. You’re going to prison for this. Your life is over. Over. Over in my mind these thoughts spread and Katya was still looking frantically everywhere for an answer. Together we were breaking. She went over to Steven and took his arm. She began feeling his wrist. His pulse. I’d been too stupid to think of that after the incident. I’d been too weak to do anything. I’d just collapsed.

“Fuck.” Katya said, feeling his wrist. “We’ve got to hurry.” And then there was silence as neither of us knew what to do. I was racking my brain with nothing availing itself. No answers. It felt like we were thinking for hours before Katya said “Go.”

“What?” I broke out of my trance.

“If I call the police I can tell them I did it in self defense. I can tell them I stabbed him.” This scared the shit out of me. Katya taking the blame for my actions.

“No.” I stated instantly, emphatically. “You can’t… I mean…” I was searching for a way to put my mind into words. Katya though already had the phone, picked it up from where I’d left it on the kitchen bench. She turned it on and went to dial, but before she did, looked at me.

“Go!” She exclaimed, still in a state of panic. “You can’t be here when the police come.” I was frozen by the immenseness of the situation. The guilt, the fear, the uncertainty and a strange warmth underneath it all. That Katya would do this for me after what I’d done. She really must have loved me. “Go!” She exclaimed again and this time I was shaken into action. I fled the house, entered my car and drove, I guess. Away. And where I went was home. I’d forgotten, I think, the argument that I had with my father. It was of no consequence yet though, as I entered the Richmond house and went to my bed room. I closed and locked my door by habit. And lay in bed. Stressing. Full of thoughts. The last of which was of Katya’s father. Steven. Of when the knife broke his skin. Of his word as his glazed eyes begged me, mired in hurt.

“Owen…” He’d said.

And as I lay in bed, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why he’d known my name.