Goodnight

John woke up to a sun filled room and a rather monotone speaking woman announcing that it would be raining for the next eight days so if you don’t own a tennis racket, don’t get one. John was relieved because he despised tennis. Looking around the powder pink bedroom, John did not recall sleeping at his aunt Penny’s house, not to mention bringing his alarm clock with him, but there he was in her guest bedroom feeling quite normal and rested and ready and hungry. Grumble. Grumble. John opened the closet door and there hung a burnt orange glossy tuxedo which was exactly what he thought he’d find in there so he put it on. Swish. Swish. John could smell bacon and eggs and maple and coffee. John left his room and walked down a long, down a long, down a long, down a long, long, long hallway, passing frame after frame after frame of the same doll-like looking girl with golden hair and purple eyes and flushed cheeks. John stopped in front of a room he did not recall being there. He pushed open the door. Creeeeeeeek. John stepped into the room. Creek—John froze. John froze. John. Froze. John froze, not bringing himself any further into the room. John did not see that the walls were yellowed or that the only piece of furniture was a pearl coloured toy chest but John knew that walls were yellowed and that the only piece of furniture was a pearl coloured toy chest. All John could see was the back of the same girl he saw in frame after frame after frame in the long, long, long, long, long hallway. She stood dead still in front of a window waving, waving in front of a window, a window that was drawn onto the yellowed wall, drawn on with brown crayon. John opened his mouth to say something but his voice had escaped him and he stood there frozen, paralysed, mute. Silenced. The girl’s body slowly, very, very, very, slowly started turning around towards him. When her purple eyes finally struck him, her purple eyes struck him he fell back, he fell back, back into the wooden floor, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling, falling.

“John, are you okay?”

“Yeah—I fucking hate falling dreams.”