My Old Friend Robert Kills My Great Aunt Pearl

I wake to a gunshot.

I lay my head back onto my pillow, roll over with a handful of blanket and hide my back from the sun framed window—close my eyes.

It is that hazy time in the morning when it is hard to tell if dreams persist.

I am rolling down my back stairs. Instead of crashing to the ground, I am standing upright, looking back up into a brightly lit entrance. It is dark where I am on the landing. My great aunt Pearl’s silhouette is standing above me in the doorway. Like a demon angel. She starts to float down the stairs towards me. I clench my fists. They feel small and raw. My heart tries to jump out of my mouth. Then, quickening gelatin.

I wake to another gunshot.

I rub my eyes, crust crumbling in my fingers. My great aunt Pearl’s floating silhouette is still suspended before me—slowly melting away. The silhouette becomes a shadow. Then it is gone, and so is the memory.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth is the only reminder of fear.

I fall back down onto my pillow, sighing. I am glad it is morning and I did not wake in the middle of the night.

Another gunshot.

I roll over and close my eyes again, sure that the morning light will shelter me from more great-aunt-Pearls. The blanket is on the ground now, so I pull a wrinkled corner of sheet up around my head.

I am running. Slowly. But I am winning the race. I can see the finish line but no one is there cheering. My feet look like clown feet when I glance down. I look up. I am crouching at a starting block. I do not remember running a moment before. I have on a cheap green t-shirt that says Essex Grade School in black, block lettering. I look to my left. My friend Robert smiles back—his face is familiar but hazy. His teeth are very white. The starter raises his pistol.

I wake to another gunshot.

I moan and throw the sheet onto the ground. I sit on the side of my bed and look at my bedside alarm clock. It is nine twenty-three. The park across the street from my apartment was covered in snow when I moved in. I had had no idea that underneath was a public high school track.

I walk though my bedroom with heavy feet, then my living room scratching, and yawn into my kitchen. I stare out my window as another gunshot rings out. And I watch two skinny kids break away from the others. They are wearing the same jersey. It is not green and the kids are in high school. Still, I smile. I remember Robert.

And forget about my great aunt Pearl.