Be, short for Belicia, woke up from her nightmare of sorts, around 4 a.m. in the morning. She had dozed off while reading and now the bright light was creating a sunburn on top of her head. She reached down to turn off the floor lamp, and sat quietly for a moment before running to the bathroom.
“That was a crazy dream,” she reasoned. Be knew she would have to tell her therapist about this one. Once she settled back into her bed of books, she found her journal and pen once more and begin to sketch what she could remember:
Black dogs, about six, and one small white pup, all dead and lying in the yard at the old house on 30th Street. One of the dogs was in the mailbox. I was cleaning them up somehow; putting them in a trash can while the neighbors across the street watched. They were actually waiting for me to finish so they could buy the Christmas ornaments, the lighted tree and the gift boxes that were on the brown bookshelf in the garage.
Be read it to herself for accuracy, but there was no reasoning. Usually when she dreamt crazy dreams it was due to some bad food or falling asleep on a scary movie; but this time, none of that had happened. She had eaten left-over salmon and rice from the night before, and there was no television in her bedroom.
Still exhausted from the restless night, Be turned off the light, curled up with her pillow between her legs and nodded off. She had nowhere to go, no friends or family nearby, and nothing especially to do tomorrow or the next day. Sleep had become her closest companion.
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