If I hear screams outside – and not your run-of-the-mill play-like scream, I’m talking about bloodcurdling, hair-rising screams – I’m the kind of person that will peek through the door’s eye-piece or look out the window. Unless it’s gunshots we’re talking about, in which case I’ll move to the innermost part of the apartment in a hurry (and it has happened more than once already). Same goes for numerous and insistent siren wails. Part of me does it because I want to be in the know (be it for the reason that it may: I like being a well-informed citizen … or I’m just turning into an old, gossipy fart!). The “bigger” part of me does it because it gets a thrill – an adrenaline surge – out of other people’s emergencies and crises. Same goes for when a hurricane is announced. The tornado-chaser in me wakes up and smiles a little bit.
Until now this part of me has had no bearing in my fortune. My curiosity has not gotten the best of me, not to the point in which any onlooker could be tempted to start talking about dead cats and such. But last night, in my dreams, it did.
I dreamt some regular Joe broke into my apartment with me in it. I tried to force him back outside, only to run into the grim figure of a dead neighbor. I had seen too much and the guys with the guns knew it. I knelt and I looked for the longest time into a brushed steel barrel (sort of flat-ish) and then it was over.
Next thing I know I’m looking at a mirror in a bathroom (not the mirror in my bathroom, but then again, dreams are fickle when it comes to spaces and appearances). What’s wrong with all of this is: I’m alive but I have a gunshot wound in my forehead and there’s blood streaming down my face and across my chest. Dry, caked blood. I’m supposed to be dead, but all I have to prove for it is a zit-sized hole … a zit-size smoking, gaping hole. Not supposed to be there, was it?
Then again, when some people started visiting my home, I realized most of them were seeing something completely different to what I saw in the mirror. Something completely different from what I look like (I’m under the impression, perhaps out of a glimpse I got during the dream, that I was a girl with long, light-brown, wavy hair). I had reincarnated almost immediately, I realized, out of concern for what would happen to Eze.
I woke up with a start. It was scary enough to see me dead in a mirror. Dead-but-alive. Holding on to dear life, even if it meant invading someone else’s body, out of concern for Eze. Thing is, I think I’m not afraid to die so much as I am afraid of missing out on the lives of my loved ones.
