this thing is still about things



I’m in some sort of dream-like childhood home.  It’s the house but not quite.  I’m sleeping and I’m woken suddenly by a loud banging on the door.  Not knocking, but a clenched fist banging.  An angry and urgent banging.  I open my eyes and they adjust to the darkness around me.  This thing has pounded so hard on the storm door that it has jarred open the actual door.  It doesn’t feel like I’m breathing at all but I lock the storm door, lock the regular door.  Fluorescent light is coming in through a window and I’m avoiding where it hits so nothing can see me.  I sneak into a garage area and lock the doors in there, too but I know I’m not supposed to.  People need to get in through those doors but how can I be safe if they’re not locked?  It’s still dark and silent.  Dead silent and the terror is overwhelming.  I can’t breathe.

I find a letter in my pocket that is in my own handwriting.  My handwriting is on about 3/4 of the page.  In the empty space is someone else’s handwriting that I’ve never seen.

I wish it was you
I wish it was you
I wish it was you

And then I woke up.

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