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(live: 1s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//"too much sanity may be madness//](stop:)]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//and the maddest of all,//](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//to see life [[as it is]]//](stop:)]
(live: 7s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//and not as it should be."//](stop:)]
(live: 9s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//-Miguel de Cervantes//](stop:)]
|fade-out>["too much sanity may be madness]
|fade-out>[and the maddest of all,]
|fade-out>[to see life] **as it is**
|fade-out>[and not as it should be."]
|fade-out>[//-miguel de cervantes//]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[by mary kenney](stop:)]
(live: 4s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[ [[wake up]] ](stop:)]
You wake with a start, greeting by the shrieking alarm on your phone. You groan. As always, it’s [[too early]] for this shit.
The sun won’t rise for at least another hour. The thought isn't an encouraging one, and you consider sleeping in. Depends how [[motivated]] you feel today.
(live: 1s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[the tiger is prowling](stop:)]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[just outside](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[you have 12 hours left](stop:)]
(live: 7s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[to [[live]].](stop:)]
you hate your dreams. they are shameful, too-bright things. they ask you to relive every moment of every day, but slightly warped, a cracked mirror of reality.
so you are almost relieved when you are wrenched from their webbed grasp by a [[muffled roar]] and a [[weight like disks of iron]], stacked on your chest.
there is a knot just above your spine that tightens with fear. it is the fear of prey as a tiger paces only steps away, a fear older than any [[rational thought]].
it is the sound of hunger. something soft is shredded and bitten and gulped down.
you open your mouth and inhale a cloud with shards of glass inside. your nose and throat burn. spittle bubbles on your lips, and snot drips from the tip of your nose.
you manage to raise your heavy eyelids.
first, you blink away the bleariness of sleep. you are blinded by a drifting softness. smoke, sour and sharp and weighty, hovers in suspended threads around the room.
you peer up, up past the bands of smoke. weighed down by their own poison, they cannot reach the sterile white clock in its black plastic frame.
its tiny black hand points to 4; its long, shapely hand to 6. 4:30, you think, but you can’t be sure.
after all, [[it could be lying]].
You roll over and slap at the TV tray propped up next to your mattress, fishing around for your shuddering phone.
You find it, tap the giant blinking “Snooze” button on the screen, and toss it back onto the plastic table before burrowing under your comforter and musty old quilt.
Five minutes later, it’s berating you again, louder this time. You tug it off the charger and glance at the time—7:06 a.m. This time you find the tiny “[[Stop]]” command. Then you drop the phone into the pocket of your dingy gray sweatpants. Ready or not, world, here you come.
You throw off your heavy comforter and the musty, ratty quilt you’ve had forever.
Big mistake: your thin T-shirt and dingy gray sweatpants don’t do much to protect you from the frigid morning. But the invasive chill helps you blink the sleep from your eyes.
You reach for your phone as it shudders and dances across the TV tray propped up next to your mattress. The time, 6:56 a.m., glares at you in giant white letters at the top of the screen. You find the tiny “[[Stop]]” command and tap it. You drop it into your stretched-out pocket, stand, and head for the living room.
Your bare feet slap against the mildewed tile. You stare at your naked toes rather than look up at the [[faded photographs]] in plastic frames or the [[peeling paint]] smudged across the walls.
Privately, you’ve begun to call the hallway between your bedroom and the living room “[[the valley of the shadow of dreams]].” It has a ring to it, but you probably won’t be chosen as Poet Laureate anytime soon. From here to the living room, you have about three seconds to think over [[last night’s dream]].
Despite yourself, you glance up. It’s all you can do not to wince. There are three perfect rectangles of paint that's three shades lighter than the walls around it, where photographs used to hang but have been taken down.
Three photos remain.
Two are of you: there you are in a tiny green bathing suit, raptly building a sand castle. There you are in the yellow kitchen of your old house, blowing out candles while your dad watches. Your mom took that picture.
Beside it is a photograph with dull, retouched colors, protected by a wooden frame painted white. It’s a portrait of your mother, wearing a white satin wedding dress with awful poofy sleeves. There's a pile of frizzy curls on her head and garish pink lipstick stretched in an infectious smile. She’s smiling so hard that her eyes are little half-moons.
She doesn’t smile like that often enough to have crow’s feet.
You’ve heard that most people dream only infrequently.
You dream every night.
In your dreams, you relive every moment of every day, a reconstruction of every step replayed like a film no one wanted to watch.
With one major difference.
Every word you hear, out of every mouth, is different. Every yes becomes a no; every praise becomes an insult. Sometimes what you see in your dreams isn’t the opposite of what you remembered, but it’s still different.
Different enough to be a lie.
You don’t know, yet, whether it’s your dreams that lie to you, or your waking mind.
Maybe you’d rather not know.
Your dream last night was odd even by your usual standards.
Rather than reliving a slightly altered facsimile of your day, you were choked and pressed and frozen by a terror you cannot name.
You don’t have time to think through it all, though. [[Your three seconds are up]].
The landlord couldn’t care less about the row of duplexes he owns on this dumpy, cracked cul-de-sac. Your mom may have complained about the dingy paint and the heater, which has been all the fritz all winter.
Depends. You have two memories of that conversation with her: one is by day, the other a recreation in your dreams. By day, she's tried to fix it; by night, she barely notices.
You pad into the living room that doubles as a kitchen and your mom’s bedroom.
She sleeps on a [[mattress]] shoved against the far wall. There’s a [[recliner]] just opposite the mattress, next to the cabinets and the stove, but no one ever sits on it. Two TV trays, [[matches to the one in your bedroom]], stand in the middle of the room.
Your mom sits on a steel-and-vinyl folding chair pulled up to table closest to you and furthest from the door. You could [[join your mother]] at the opposite table or [[pour yourself a bowl of cereal]], first.
Your mom dragged it as far as she could from the front door and the windows that let in a thin stream of cold even when they’re closed and locked. The full mattress is covered with an old yellow sheet with tiny holes that show the gray cloth beneath. The holes came from cigarette burns or the nails of your chocolate lab, Rusty. He ran off last fall.
No one except you sits in it, anyway. And only when your mom’s not home.
The right arm is ripped, and the fabric sags in the middle. There’s a grease spot darkening the blue threads where your dad’s head used to rest.
But when you curl up in it, you imagine you can still smell the sweet tang of Nivea aftershave he always patted along his jaw before work.
Your mom got them on sale at Walmart: 4 for $34.99. They’re slabs of matte black plastic mounted on shiny black bars that form an X as they reach for the floor.
Your mom called them “a temporary fix” until she saved up enough to buy a sofa and a coffee table. You’ve had them for two years.
You glance at your phone as you sit, twisting it in your loose pocket. Your dream's odd message flickers in your mind. Nine hours left. You shake that wretched thought away.
You settle across from her, scooching your chair forward and wincing as the steel leg scrapes against the tile floor.
Your mother stares ahead, looking at nothing in particular. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she’s dressed in her [[guard’s uniform]]. Her hands are wrapped around a mug of steaming black coffee, and a [[small plastic bag]] rests near her elbow.
[[Greet her warmly.]]
[[Ask what she’s doing today.]]
[[Say nothing.]]
You pull down a chipped ceramic dish decorated with red and gold swirls. A squat, pea-green refrigerator hums beside the stove.
Inside, you find a quart of 2% milk, an unopened pack of American cheese slices, four cans of Diet Coke, and a quart of creamer.
You take the milk and pour it into the bowl, then open the cabinet where you store bread, cereal, and boxes of pasta. Your mom bought Frosted Flakes this week.
You dump those in, fetch a spoon, and [[join your mother]] at the folding table.
Black shoes, black slacks, a navy tie, and a rumpled light blue blouse with short sleeves. A navy patch on the right arm reads SECURITY in cheery yellow thread.
She moves her arm to block you as you reach for it. The tinged yellow light from the overhead bulb glints off the cheap plastic.
You can read the cardboard label stapled to the top of the bag: ZZY in cartoonish orange letters. “Herbal spice” is printed in tiny black letters below it.
She smiles sweetly and asks how you slept. You begin to tell her about your dream, but as her eyes widen and her hands begin to flutter, you break off. No point in worrying her needlessly.
She visibly relaxes when you change the subject. Then, “Are you coming in for that [[interview]] today?”
She shrugs. “Oh, working, as per usual. Security doesn’t get Saturdays.” She swirls the coffee in her cup and enjoys a long gulp of it. “You? Hanging around the house, or are you coming in for that [[interview]]?”
Your mother ignores you for a few moments, staring at the far wall's false wood paneling.
Then she turns to you. She seems to regard you warily. “Have you thought about whether you want to come in for that [[interview]]?"
“You need a summer job,” she says. “You can’t stay cooped up in the house all day. You should work.” She glares into her mug. “God knows we could use the money.”
She waits a beat, then rushes on before you have a chance to reply. “I can get you an interview with the manager at the bank. He’s a nice enough guy, usually free in the afternoon. Hires kids as tellers and floaters, doing whatever needs doing. It’s a great job. $14 an hour, more than some of the guards make. What do you think?”
[[Yeah, sure. I’ll ride with you.]]
[[Maybe later. I’d rather stay home.]]
{(set: $truck to true)
(set: $home to false)
}
She nods and scrapes back her chair. “We should get to it, then. Go get dressed and [[meet me in the truck]]. I don’t want to be late. And grab a book or something—I don’t know when he’ll be able to see you.”
{(set: $truck to false)
(set: $home to true)
}
Her face softens. “That’s fine, dear. You’re so busy. You deserve [[some rest]].”
She stands, scraping back her chair. “I need to go. Running late, as usual.”
The cracked plastic seat creaks as you haul yourself up into the truck. She turns the key, and the engine coughs and rumbles to a start.
Your dad used to come down early to warm up the cab before you and your mom piled inside, with you squished in the middle. Mom never does, not by day and not in your dreams.
She pulls away from the drive, and the wheels crunch over gravel as she navigates the twisting roads that loop around trailers in the park.
The truck turns left onto Mercer, and she gives you a sidelong glance. “Penny for your thoughts.”
[[I was thinking about dad.]]
[[I'm worried about my dreams.]]
[[I'm exhausted.]]
You rinse your bowl in the sink and pad back to your [[bedroom]]. There’s the mattress pushed against the wall, the unfinished wood [[bookshelf]], and the [[TV tray]] that holds a journal and a felt-tip pen.
[[Your phone is heavy]] in your sweatpants pocket.
“Oh, sweetie.” She sighs and stops at a light. A few snowflakes stick to the windshield, and you shiver as your mom flips on the wipers. They squeak as they swish across the glass. “That was years ago. But if you ever want to talk about it, you know I’m here.”
You nod and snuggle down in the seat as the vents finally begin venting hot, dusty air. The warmth and closeness of your mother, and the sweetness of her words, lull you into a dreamy, drowsy state. There’s half an hour of stoplights, traffic, and turns between here and the bank. You lean your head against the cold window and [[doze off]].
She glares up at the sky through the smudged glass, as if searching for an answer. A few snowflakes stick to the windshield, and you shiver as your mom flips on the wipers. They squeak across the glass.
“I don’t know much about dreams," she says finally. "But…doesn’t seem like much to go on. Stuff you only see when you’re sleeping, I mean.”
You nod and hold out your hands as the vents finally begin blowing hot, dusty air. The warmth of the cab and closeness of your mother lull you into a dreamy state.
There’s half an hour of stoplights, traffic, and turns between here and the bank. You lean your head against the cold window and [[doze off]].
A few snowflakes stick to the windshield, and you shiver as your mom flips on the wipers. They squeak as they swish across the glass. “Sleep, then. You’ve got time.”
You nod and snuggle down in the seat as the vents finally begin venting hot, dusty air. The warmth and closeness of your mother lull you into a dreamy, drowsy state. There’s half an hour of stoplights, traffic, and turns between here and the bank. You lean your head against the cold window and [[doze off]].
why do you keep coming back here?
these are dreams. they’re supposed to be—what was the quote?
"vague recreations in the dusty recess of your mind."
but no, these are as stark and bleak and sterile as hospital equipment, all hooked up and [[trying to save you]].
This used to be your mom and dad’s bedroom. After he moved out, she said she couldn’t sleep in here anymore.
When you were awake, your mom said she couldn’t bear the loneliness. The dream version of her said she heard voices in the walls.
You made it in shop class. You cut the boards, fitted the corners, and drove in the nails yourself, but you didn’t have time to finish the wood. The bookshelf works, regardless.
There are battered copies of some of your childhood favorites, //Dragons of Autumn Twilight// and //The Little Prince//.
A few of the books are still glossy and stand tall and pristine. You borrowed most of them from the school library and never bothered to give them back: //Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches// by Audre Lorde and //Thirteen: A Journey into Numbers// by Jonathan Cott.
When you’re feeling up to it, you crack open your journal and write all of your dreams in your elegant felt-tip marker.
You love the sound of the pen scraping over the paper, the sour smell of the ink as you press down hard, making it bleed through the pages.
When you read three or four entries in order, the conversations there make more sense than the ones you can remember from your waking hours.
So you try not to read them in order very often.
You glance at the digital numbers on the backlit screen of your phone. It’s still early enough to head back to bed.
A yawn overtakes you, and you stretch, balancing on your toes. Last night's dream robbed you of a decent night’s sleep. Now would be a good time to catch up.
You flop onto the mattress, stretch out, and eventually [[doze off]].
you pad down the valley of the shadow of dreams. glance up at the photographs and then away. lingering over them is pointless.
you sit across from your mom at the tray table, scooching your chair forward and wincing as the steel leg scrapes against the tile floor.
your mother stares down at her fingers. they’re [[scorched black]] on the tips. her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail. she’s dressed in her guard’s [[uniform]]. a small [[plastic bag]] rests near her elbow.
if you want to talk, it’ll be up to you to [[start the conversation]].
they used to be that way a lot, when she smoked meth in her friends’ living rooms, sitting on sagging sofas that smelled like trash.
she doesn’t look stoned now, just distracted. you don’t know how she burned her fingers.
holes are worn into the tops of the dull black shoes, just over the toes. there are chalky gray smears on the black slacks. the navy tie is pinned on crookedly. the blouse badly needs ironing. a navy patch on the right arm reads SECURITY in dingy yellow thread.
she doesn’t move as you reach for it.
it’s been ripped open and emptied, though the carboard label still hangs on by a single warped staple.
ZZY is printed there in cartoonish orange letters. “herbal spice” is printed in tiny black letters below it.
these dreams treat you as a spectator, not a participant. you watch it play back, wanting to interrupt so often, unable to do anything but wonder what to believe.
you say, “hey, mom.”
she says, “for shit’s sake, can’t i drink my coffee in peace?”
you say, “you don’t have coffee.”
she stares down at her fingertips, wriggles them a little. then says, “you going to the bank today?” you open your mouth to reply, and she sneers, “‘course not. kids like you can’t be expected to get a job, pull your own weight. you wanna just sit at home playing video games or whatever. not earning a goddamn living.” she slaps a palm on the table. “you need to come in today. now, later, i don’t care. but you need to be at the bank today.”
you say, “why?”
she starts to tremble. you feel it in the plastic tabletop under your wrists, first. then you see it in her shoulders. tears well in her eyes.
something far-off and muffled, begins to wail. the ring ring ring grows louder, a pulled alarm or a tornado siren.
you want to block it all out, stop the tears, stop the ring ring ring. you promise her you’ll come, and the trembling slows, then stops.
she wipes at her eyes with her charred fingers. but the wailing keeps going [[ring ring ring]]...
(if: $truck is true)[You jump up, only half awake. Your heart thuds. The ring ring ring continues, the ring of alarm, of panic, of danger. No, it’s a chirping. It’s your mother’s phone. You stare at her, remembering the dream version of her. She shakes her head and grumbles, “Two minutes late, Christ. Let’s go inside. You’ll need to wait in the [[lobby]] for a bit. Hope you grabbed that book.”]
(if: $home is true)[You wake with a start and sit up, your heart thudding. The ring ring ring of an alarm, of panic, of danger. No, it’s not an alarm. It’s a ring like sticks rattling against an old fence. Your ringtone. You pick up your phone, and a name flashes on the screen. [[Salma.]]
[[Answer it]]
[[Ignore it]]
]
The sign outside reads “Community First Credit Union” in pristine navy letters. [[Your mom]] stands just inside the main doorway.
There are three rows of five faux wooden chairs with thick arms and scratchy cloth backs and seats. They huddled together between a counter with neat stacks of blank deposit slips, and a counter where the tellers wait and gesture and plug numbers into machines.
[[Your book]] lies unopened on your lap. You glance up at the [[clock]].
You remember the day you became friends with Salma. A boy in your 2nd grade homeroom begged you to pass her a note. It asked whether she would be his girlfriend, with boxes to check "yes" or "no."
She returned the note later that day. She'd colored it in from top to bottom, on both sides, in dark purple marker, obliterating all the words. The paper was heavy and sticky, and you laughed at the purple ink it left on your fingers.
She laughed, too, and compared her marker-smeared hands to yours. You’ve been friends ever since.
You swipe the phone to answer, but before you can get a word out, Salma cuts you off.
“Hey! I just wanted to tell you–you know that summer in Europe program I applied to? I got in! Holy shit, right?”
She keeps talking, but the line blurs in and out, spitting and popping. She’s probably on a rural road, and her reception sucks.
[[Salma, I can’t hear you.]]
[[Hang up.]]
You swipe to ignore her call and shove the phone into your pocket.
With the alarm silenced and your mom gone, the room is empty and stale. Loneliness begins to prick at your eyes. You think of the walk from here to the living room. You don’t want to use those three seconds in the hall thinking over your last dream. It was…just too much.
You glance at the clock. 12:06 p.m. You could head to the bank. In and out of the dream, your mom wanted you there. Maybe you can find out why. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to get a summer job. It’s not like you’re doing much at home.
Resigned, you strip and tug on jeans and a T-shirt. You shrug on a heavy plaid jacket that’s two sizes too big for you.
You can walk to a bank in about an hour. Then you'll wait in the [[lobby]] until you can get that interview or talk to your mom, whichever comes first.
Her volume increases, but it doesn't help. You can feel her excitement and warmth through the line, even if you can’t understand what she’s saying.
Your dream comes back to you, all the words twisted into something else. Maybe it doesn’t matter what she’s saying. Maybe [[she’s lying]].
You tap the screen to end the call and shove the phone into your pocket.
With the call dead and your mom gone, the room is empty and stale. Loneliness begins to prick at your eyes. You think of the walk from here to the living room. You don’t want to use those three seconds in the hall thinking over your last dream. It was…just too much.
You glance at the clock. 12:06 p.m. You could head to the bank. In and out of the dream, your mom wanted you there. Maybe you can find out why. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to get a summer job. It’s not like you’re doing much at home.
Resigned, you strip and tug on jeans and a T-shirt. You shrug on a heavy plaid jacket that’s two sizes too big for you.
You can walk to a bank in about an hour. Then you'll wait in the [[lobby]] until you can get that interview or talk to your mom, whichever comes first.
You’ve seen conversations with Salma replayed in your dreams, just like all the others. The dream version of your friendship is nothing like the one you think is real. In your dreams, she’s quieter, more resigned.
The one time you flirted with her, in your dreams, she cried and said she couldn’t talk to you anymore. You spoke again a week later and more or less picked up where you left off.
But that wasn’t how it happened when you were awake. In daylight, she said yes. [[You’re sure she said yes]].
Salma comes back on the line and asks how you are. You tell her about the odd conversation with your mother, plus the replayed version. You’ve told her about your dreams before, and she was gentle as she tried to understand.
Outside of your dreams, anyway. In them, she was...not.
She says your dreams sound like you’re feeling guilty, since your wants you to get a job so badly.
You glance at the clock. 12:06 p.m. You could head to the bank. In and out of the dream, your mom wanted you there. Maybe you can find out why. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to get a summer job. It’s not like you’re doing much at home.
Resigned, you tell Salma you’ll call her later and hang up the phone. You strip and tug on jeans and a T-shirt. You shrug on a heavy plaid jacket that’s two sizes too big for you.
You can walk to a bank in about an hour. Then you'll wait in the [[lobby]] until you can get that interview or talk to your mom, whichever comes first.
She stands straight and proud, her eyes far-off and scanning the room without settling on any one thing. She greets people as they enter and leave the bank, and most smile and nod in reply. Her presence makes people feel watched. Safe.
You grabbed one at random from your shelf before leaving the house. //Thirteen: A Journey into Numbers//. It’s a little heavy for waiting room reading, and you feel your eyes soften and blur. You’re still so tired; you got so little sleep last night.
The clock, a white moon face wrapped in black plastic, shows 1:20 p.m. It stirs your memory. Three hours left.
You feel a hand on your shoulder. “You look done in,” your mom says. “Why not go to the back? There’s an empty office. You can sleep on the floor, and no one will care. I’ll come get you when Denny—that’s the manager—is ready. Could be a few hours, still. They’re swamped today.”
You nod and rise. The memory still tangles around your thoughts, but you’re so tired. You [[can’t remember being so tired]].
You stand and make your way through the bland beige hallway, studying the plastic blue plaques on the wall with names printed and slid into laminated sleeves. [[Judy Grayson]], [[Carl Elerding]], [[Mike Sol]].
You stop at a room marked by an empty sleeve and flick on the light inside. The room somehow seems [[duller]] that the other offices, though you didn’t realize that was possible.
You curl up behind the wraparound desk, shifting to get comfortable on the thin, scratchy carpet.
Your dreams are awful, but sometimes, it’s better than being awake. It's not long before [[you drift off to sleep]].
You stop and peer inside her office. She's sitting at her computer, ignoring the screen as she says something terse and cool into the phone. Her computer flickers with an Excel spreadsheet and numbers highlighted in red. Though you’re sure she's speaking English, you don’t understand a word of it.
She spots you and gestures rudely, waving her hand to get rid of you. It’s time for you to go.
You stop and peer inside his office. The lights are off, but the computer is still on. It plays a screensaver of family photos: a family of five in front of a yacht, a boy jumping into a pool, a yellow lab shaking off water. Nice, pretty, boring. You step back.
You stop and peer inside his office. He’s hunched over his computer, and the lights are dim. You lean forward to see what he’s studying so intently.
When you figure out what the moving, flesh-colored shapes are doing, you blush. No one’s supposed to look at //that// at work! You hurry back into the hallway.
The wraparound oak desk is clear of the usual spread of papers and pens, a computer, or clustered picture frames and knick-knacks.
The beige walls are empty of decoration and bleached by the window across from the doorway. The carpet is muted gray and had been tamped down by careless feet.
It looks exactly like every other office in this hall, but the others have the subtle aura of being lived-in, and, through use, alive. This room is dead.
the autopsy will say you inhaled toxic smoke, your tendons were charred, your skin split.
but none of that explains why you died.
so you go back, back, much farther back than usual.
mormally your mind takes you back only a day, to replay everything you just saw as it really was, not as your waking mind warped it.
maybe it’s protecting you.
maybe it wants you dead.
maybe [[it can’t tell the difference]].
the kitchen walls are a sickly yellow. they were supposed to look like sunflower petals, but they’re closer to mustard. it’s another thing your parents argue over, when they need a reason to be angry.
you lean over the candles, flickering and bowing as if they know they’re not supposed to be there. you suck in a breath to blow them out. your dad holds his breath as you do, and you smile at each other and then break off into a peal of shared giggles. your mom snaps the photo.
that was one of the few good dreams. when you were awake, you saw your father staring out the window, barely watching as you blew out your candles. your mom snapped the photo, then threw it away.
you’re not sure [[which to believe]], but you know which you prefer.
you’re sitting on the beach, patting down a mushy sand castle that keeps crumbling at the corner. you were bubbly and excited when you started, but you aren’t now. cold, dirty sand sticks to your tiny fists. behind you, they argue.
he’s sick, she’s stoned. he says it’s MS, she says he’s faking it. he says she’s stealing pills, she says he doesn’t understand how hard it is.
on and on and on.
you can’t tell who’s lying, and even if you could, [[would it matter]]?
you remember the day differently, of course. you always do. in your memory, your parents were arguing about who loved you more.
now that you think it over, even in your dreams, that seems a little far-fetched.
if it was true, why would you still [[be with your mom]]?
the early years after he left stank like burning fingertips and stuck like greasy sheets to sweaty backs.
you lived in 12 houses in two years.
finally, your mom seemed to clean up. she’d never been arrested, though the cops dropped in twice. she cried and pointed at you, promised she was doing her best. they gave her warnings and filed no charges. so her record was clean when she applied for the security job.
she seemed to like it, the uniform and the nods of respect and the fear of people who didn’t want to be watched. it seemed to be going well. [[at first]], anyway.
it grew old, like everything does. you grew old.
she tore telephones off their cradles and threw them at you. she ripped photographs off the walls and threw those too.
all in your dreams.
in waking hours, none of that happened. she took down a photograph and dropped it, and it somehow cut your face.
somehow.
maybe your dreams were [[telling the truth all along]].
you hate your dreams. they are shameful, too-bright things. they ask you to relive every moment of every day, but slightly warped, a cracked mirror of reality.
so you are almost relieved when you are wrenched from their webbed grasp by a **muffled roar** and a **weight like disks of iron** stacked on your chest. there is a knot just above your spine that tightens with fear.
it is the fear of prey as a [[tiger paces only steps away]], a fear older than any **rational thought**.
You jerk awake. It's never peaceful, coming back.
You glance around, searching. You find the clock high on the wall, a copy of the one in the lobby. A white face with a black plastic halo. It reads 4:30.
[[No time left, then]].
you dissolve into your dreams, replaying them one by one, seeing them in almost perfect detail.
the house. the arguments. the beach.
your dreams paint the pictures, but your reason connects them. it gives them meaning.
it shows a con artist and the man who married her. it shows a man sick and weary who gave up on her and you and himself.
it shows a woman who was violent and then tender, selfish and then apologetic. it shows a woman who could be clever when it suited her and vicious when threatened with abandonment.
it shows a woman who made sure you would be here today. a woman with scorched fingers and distracted eyes.
you feel it as if from a long way off, the press of warmth and light against your skin. it grows and grows as your chest fills and grows heavier, growing, sinking. down.
[[the tiger swallows you.]]
You cry out as your lungs burn and scream at you. Shove open the door. The roar grows into a spitting crackle.
Fire.
Fire everywhere.
It licks the walls and sends up tongues of black smoke.
You bend over and cough as if wretching up your lungs, wondering if you’ll spit blood.
You remember last night’s dream, the clock and the fire and the fear that tightened like barbed wire in your flesh.
[[Look for a way out.]]
[[Look for your mom.]]
(live: 1s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[You had 12 hours](stop:)]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[and then the [[tiger came]].](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[It swallowed you hole.](stop:)]
A woman sits alone at a faux wood table with two padded plastic chairs pulled up on opposite sides. The room is blank, free of anything threatening or colorful.
She rests her head in her palms and watches dully as a man in plainclothes sits opposite her.
The man rocks back in his chair.
"They're still searching the building. Most of it went down with the fire."
She keeps her head propped up on her fist as she asks, “Did you find…”
“What?” the man says. “Did I find what?”
The woman stares blankly at him. Then leans forward. Her face darkens, and she covers it with her hand. She sits like that for 36 seconds, her hand covering her eyes.
“What?” he repeats.
She runs her hand back through hair gathered into a loose ponytail, now heavy with the smell of smoke.
“My…my child. My child was in there."
The man stares at her. Says nothing.
She isn’t sure [[what to believe]].
(live: 1s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[written and designed by mary kenney](stop:)]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[see more at //marykgames.com//](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[click to [[begin]] again.](stop:)]
You bend at the waist, keeping your head low, and run. The offices are empty, but the fire alarms are silent. No sprinklers, but maybe some people managed to get out. Maybe.
You dash into Judy Grayson’s office. It's the mirror of the empty, dead one you slept in. The window is high, but you can climb up if you use her desk.
You stumble, awkward and clumsy but driven by fear. You stretch across the gap between the desk and the window. It’s shut and sealed. You can’t slide it open from this side.
[[Break the window.]]
[[Look for your mom.]]
You stumble down the hallway, coughing and shaking as drool and snot drip off your chin.
You make it to the lobby, you think. It’s hard to tell with the smoke clotting everything and the screams as people try to run and flee.
There’s a sound, a pop and a crack, to your left. Another, pop and crack. More screaming. The smoke running along the ceiling like rivers rushes toward the sound. You turn toward it.
The door. The river runs to the door, seeking escape. You run after it, coughing and wheezing. Your mom was standing by this door.
And then, all at once, she’s there. She holds [[her gun]] in one hand and stares at you, shocked. She’s [[standing just inside the door]], like always.
You turn and find the tower of Judy’s computer tucked beneath the desk. You scream in frustration as you try to pick it up, tearing at the cords that tether it to the wall.
Then you hoist it up. It feels light, far too light to break glass. You’re half-crying, half-screaming as you launch it at the window.
There’s the clatter of plastic hitting glass, then tumbling to the ground.
But no shatter of broken barriers.
[[Try again.]]
[[Look for your mom.]]
You lean across the gap and study at the window again. The glass didn’t shatter, but some of the sealant holding it closed cracked. It’s a hairline fracture.
It’s enough.
You hop down and awkwardly wrap your arms around the tower again, then climb back onto the desk. You take a step back and launch it at the same spot, crying out.
Just a little more. You lean across the gap this time, and to hell with the computer.
Your fingernails tear on the plaster as you begin ripping at it, the tiny crack that could be everything.
[[The sweet kiss of fresh air.]]
The window jerks and shudders as you try to shove it open. Your wrists ache at the strain, and your lungs burn as the smoke boils above you.
Then the window is open, just enough. You launch yourself through, pulling and climbing and weeping.
You fall awkwardly on your hip, hissing as it strikes the ground. You manage to stand, then stumble through the patches of dirty yellow grass and half-melted clumps of snow. You glance back
The bank is burning. Billowing sheets of red-orange flame hang from the walls. Black, roiling smoke, much more than you thought possible, churns itself into greasy balls that roll up the walls and rise high, reaching for the clear sky above.
You don’t know who set the fire. But you can guess.
The [[tiger came]], just as your dreams warned. They gave you 12 hours to live your old life.
You wonder how much longer it will take you to disappear.
(live: 2s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[//fin.//](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[ [[credits]] ](stop:)]
It’s a Smith & Wesson revolver, standard issue to the security guards at your mom’s company.
You’ve heard her fire it, once at the range and one time at the wall in your apartment, when she got bored. Its sound is a pop and a crack.
She looks as shocked to see you as you are to see her. You shout that it’s time to get out, time to run.
She raises her gun, and you see them again, something you only barely noticed this morning. Her scorched fingers.
Her hands are covered with soot and oil now.
There’s a pop. A crack.
You stumble.
White-hot pain in your leg.
You scream.
She watches you for a moment. Then backs away, never breaking your gaze.
She backs out of the door.
Finally, turns and runs.
Behind you, [[the tiger grows]].
(live: 1s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[You had 12 hours](stop:)]
(live: 3s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[and then the [[tiger came]].](stop:)]
(live: 5s)[(t8n:"dissolve")[It swallowed you hole.](stop:)]
Dappled orange-gold light spills across its surface, filtering through the glass window set into the door. But all of the lights here are flourescent. You're sure of it.
You were so close to seeing the truth in your dreams, so close to piecing together all the pretty and ugly bits into something you could understand.
If you can overcome your fear, you could go back to them. [[Curl up again and try to find the truth]].
But the roar is growing louder, the weight heavier. You shouldn’t stay here. You need to leave, and to hell with your dreams and all the warped pictures. Now, [[all that matters is survival]].