Excerpt: Death of Dream

I rest my ghost fingers on the vertical part of the gate, not ready to go any further. What do I think I’m going to do? Confront Sketch? Scream at him for what he did? Do I plan on haunting him till the day he dies? Is that all I want from this whole deal, or do I want revenge? The word revenge bouncing around in my head has a nice taste to it. I want something to come of my circumstance. Though he’ll get jail time and maybe even the death penalty, I need something more personal. I see him in my thoughts. I chase him. I scare him. I make him run in front of a bus or fall down the stairs. Maybe I just want him crazy. I don’t know. For all I know, he can’t even see me. There is only one way to find out though.

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“Dream!” I hear coming from outside of my memory. I’m so trapped in the scene that for the first second I try to match the words to one of the faces and see who is calling me. “What the hell are you doing?” I’m asked. I come back and see Sketch sitting on the couch, not having moved the whole time. He doesn’t look concerned, but confused and a bit annoyed.

“Sorry,” I say, but why the hell am I apologizing. I readjust my attitude. “Doesn’t matter to you what I’m doing. You need to start talking to me about our real issue here. Why the hell did you kill me?” I’m hot with anger again. The memory was one of good times, almost innocent times when the guys leaned heavily on me, and I did everything for them. My devotion never ended, and I was betrayed. “You betrayed me, you bastard,” I growl, the anger surging forward. I take floating steps towards him, but he doesn’t flinch.

Sketch grows cold. His eyes neutralize and he gives me no more of the warmth they once had. I think I like this better. It makes things more analytical. “Yeah, I betrayed you, but you’re not the first. The world isn’t as pretty as you thought it was, Dream. Not even in your backyard, especially in your backyard.” Something hard goes into his eyes and voice. He jumps up from the couch. The motion is so sharp and yet fluid. I force myself not to flinch. Sketch was a graceful man. It was part of his charm. He stalks around the couch and past me to his bottle on the floor. I’m surprised it took him this long to pick it up. He takes his place back on the bottom corner of the bed, eyes closed when he takes a drink and then staring downward when he’s escaping in the liquor. “I had to do it.” His voice is low. I think it might have been a whisper but I feel more in tune to sounds around me as a ghost and the words come through very clearly.