A proper cup of espresso can practically wake the dead. Right now, Mike needed something that would ensure his total alertness and bar sleep from settling over him until at least 12:01 a.m.
Then, it would be over. He'd be safe.
He hoped the oral mega-shots of caffeine would do the trick.
As he sat at the bar which divided the kitchen from the dining room, his eyes were transfixed on the blank white wall next to the window that overlooked Jameson Avenue.
Several stories down, the sight of daily life appeared to be normal---but it wasn't---not for Mike anyway.
People shuffled around behind the numerous windows in the apartments across the crowded avenue, oblivious to his plight, living relatively normal lives in the small little worlds they had created for themselves. Many were already asleep, enjoying the peaceful offering the darkness brought to them each night as they rested their heads on soft, welcoming pillows.
Mike downed his last drop of espresso then stood and stared at the endless well of black liquid that beckoned to him from beside the cappuccino machine on his kitchen counter.
Enroute to the legal, liquid "speed", the phone rang with a shocking, disruptive jolt which caught him completely off guard no less than if someone had fired up a chain saw behind him.
A tingling vibration shimmied up his spine as he reached toward the noise.
"Yeah?", he muttered as he picked up the receiver.
"Mike? Hey, it's me. Liven up babe! It's not that bad."
Mike managed a smile, which had become a rare happening the passed couple of days---and seemed to be getting rarer by the moment. Though a meager smile, nevertheless, it was a smile. "Hey angel---sorry but I'm just a bit on edge that's all."
"The dreams?"
"Yeah---they're starting to really freak me out."
"But, you know that it's all coincidence---"
Mike's mind wheeled and spun, producing a quick replay of the dream he had two nights ago. Again, he could plainly see every grisly detail of the woman as she was shredded by a knife wielding, masked man. Blood was everywhere. It was worse than the slaughter house where he worked at as a teenager. Then, yesterday morning he had seen the shocking headlines scorched across the front page of the local paper and read the article of an identical attack on a college student. The police on the scene described the murder as the most gruesome, heinous crime they had ever witnessed. The woman had been slashed and stabbed over two hundred times. They said the crime was the work of a very disturbed and angry individual---a monster.
A cold sweat broke out over Mike's body.
"Mike? You there?"
Snapping back to reality, Mike shook his head and simply nodded. Then, realizing that he hadn't really responded to Jessica, he mumbled softly, "Jess, I haven't told you everything---. When I dreamed that Jack would call me after all these years, or that I'd find a wad of cash in the parking lot,---Hell, even that you'd fall and brake your ankle was nothing compared to---."
"What?", Jessica asked urgently. "Have any other dreams come true. You're not a physic or anything, Mike. They've got to be---"
"I know, I know---coincidences."
"Well," Jessica hesitated, "Yeah---coincidences."
"No way, Jess! The dreams have turned bad---deadly, and they're still coming true."
"Mike, don't say that---you're starting to scare me!"
Mike bit his lip, intending to keep a closed lid on the murder, but before he could think of a reason to tell Jessica good night and end the conversation, the words just blurted out.
Jessica listened from the other end in stoned silence; her disbelief and horror was evident by the very fact that she did remain silent, only offering an occasional gasp or deep, labored inhalations.
After the disturbing tale was rehashed, an uncomfortable silence sat between them like a huge concrete wall. Finally, Jessica managed to break through the obstacle and it was apparent that she was beginning to take his dreams a little more seriously.
"Oh, my God, Mike---that's so horrible. What are we going to do? Should you tell the police? Did you see his face?"
"No, the guy was wearing a mask, like I said," he responded, mildly annoyed. "And, there's no way I'm telling anything to the police. They'll just turn this thing around and the next thing you know I'll be calling you from a jail cell---as their main suspect."
"But, psychics help the police---"
"So, now I am a psychic?"
"Mike---maybe you've been given this gift just long enough to help them catch this guy. The other dreams that came true might've been just to build your confidence so you'd know---"
"No! No way! No damn cops! Do you hear me Jess?"
Jessica released a heavy, frustrating sigh. "Okay, they're your dreams---"
"Thank you."
"Mike, I think I'll pop over for a bit and---"
"No---don't come over, not tonight!", he spat out with an almost vehement tone.
Again, the wall of silence.
Again, it was Jessica who spoke first.
"Okay---I need to go. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
Mike nodded. "Jess---I love you and I'm sorry but I---need to be alone."
Several minutes after they hung up, Mike was again sitting with cup in hand and staring at the blank white wall that now served as a projection screen for his hyperactive mind. Over and over the murder played out before his eyes.
The blood.
The painful, pleading screams.
Mike glanced at the clock.
11:27.
Thirty-three minutes until midnight. Then, his latest dream would be nothing more than just that---a dream.
Since each of his previous dreams had come true before 12:00 midnight the day following the "premonition", Mike felt reasonably certain that if he could stay awake until then, he'd be safe and out of jeopardy.
Thus, he had called in sick to work so he could stay in the safe, secluded confines of his apartment.
Mike knew that he could trust Jessica---she would never harm him, but still felt it best to have absolutely no personal contact with anyone today. By avoiding people, he'd assure himself that he would not end up slaughtered like the college girl in his dreams.
After all, that's exactly what had happened in his dream last night; he himself was butchered by a masked man just as she had been---only he was able to awaken himself before the blade found it's way across his throat.
With just thirty minutes to go, Mike was determined not to be taken by surprise by a last minute home invasion so he searched the apartment quickly for some type of protection. Since he didn't own a gun, he opted for a baseball bat and a knife from the kitchen cupboard.
He eased over to his sofa, which faced the only entrance into his apartment, and trained a watchful eye on the only potential portal of death.
Fifteen minutes crept passed---then, twenty.
With only a few minutes to go the grip on the bat loosened and the thirty-three inch Louisville Slugger fell to the ground. Mike's head fell to the side and his body rested against a soft, throw pillow---he was sound asleep.
Immediately, he began dreaming.
The masked man had cornered him in a darkened alley. He was advancing closer and closer. Mike began thrashing against the sofa cushions.
He had to fight off the assailant.
The desperation in his mind caused him to wave the knife that he still gripped firmly in his hand. Several times the razor sharp blade sliced through his clothing and flesh. Crimson blotches began forming on his jeans and shirt.
Mike could not awake himself.
The dream had him soundly entrenched deep inside the blackest depths of his mind. He stood, his body pleading for him to come out of the hypnotic slumber.
He stepped away from the sofa; his eyes opened wide with pain and confusion. The sight of the blood made him panic. He wasn't certain what was going on---shock began to settle over him.
Had someone broken in?
He saw no one.
The phone. He had to call for help.
Disoriented and weak from the loss of blood, Mike took a swaggering step toward the phone but his foot came down on the barrel of the baseball bat and his leg shot out from under him.
He tumbled to the floor.
In an attempt to break the fall, he thrust his hands down first but as his head and body neared the floor, the knife in his right hand, facing upward, drove itself deep into his throat.
Mike rolled over onto his side, coughing and spitting up blood. The last thing he heard was the grandfather clock in the hall as it began to chime.
By the twelth chime, Mike was dead.
The End
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