I dreamt that I was a murderer. Waking was horror itself, as I cast my mind back to the night before, focussed on the need to discover who was dead and dismembered before remembering that this was just the internal, the mind’s presentation of things past, and that really there was no evidence to hide.
In the dream it was one of my friends. A fight, a victory but such loss, and the realisation that I had to hide what I had done, and how to do so.
This had been the dream. This was why I hadn’t slept well, the turbulence of my disturbed sleep waking her on so many occasions that, by morning, she was ready to kill me.
No sharp moves. We were as innocent as the night before when the beer had brought sleep like a sudden blanket, cutting off the consciousness with sweet suffocation.