Armageddon

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Watching someone sleep is not as romantic as it seems to most, particularly if you catch your subject at the wrong hour.

I had such misfortune when I was fourteen and had been woken by a bad dream that I can't remember - although I do remember it started with my father's release from prison, despite him having passed two years before. I woke up and was afraid of getting out from under the bedsheets, lest I found out I was not dreaming, and the tormentor of my dreams was in the room with me.

This went on for about half an hour, until I decided it was all stupid - I was way too old to be scared of some bogeyman or whatever (I had also been adamant, many times before, about telling my peers that the bogeyman didn't exist). I slowly emerged from the sheets, and - upon finding my room empty - felt myself fall into a state of calm which was quickly followed by an urge to use the bathroom.

I had always wondered how Sophie could sleep every night with the knowledge that she was a murderer. Every night at ten, she would take four minutes to pray: normally, she would ask if she'd done the right thing by sending my father away, ask God to open my heart and allow me to forgive her, and then she would pray for the starving children in Africa. The Lord's Prayer would serve as the epilogue; and I would hear a click, and then silence would wrap around me.

Wanting to see if she would still look guilty when she slept, I slowly pushed her door open and ventured inside. I walked slowly, in the dark, until I reached the bed, and watched over her. I've said I don't remember what nightmare had taken my sleep that night, but I do remember that the sight of Sophie sleeping was worse than that: her eyelids were like slits that would not fully reveal her eyes; thus, I could only see the sclera. But even then, I could see her eyes moving, searching, as though she could sense my presence. She made small moans every few seconds that sounded like soft protests; and every few minutes, she would twitch, her body seeming as if it was trying to leap up at me. It was as though she were possessed and was at the mercy of whatever demon had seized her. I don't know what I'd expected to see or feel, but that was not it. I remember being confused as to whether I should feel sorry for her or take pleasure from her apparent suffering (I now know that she was not, in fact, possessed by anything; nor was she suffering).

I made a dash for the door, finding myself fearful of my mother, but still sympathetic with her for whatever reason. More than anything, I wished never to see anyone the way I'd seen her that night.

***

Today, I awoke to my phone buzzing on the nightstand, and I pressed ignore when I saw Sophie's name flashing across the screen.

She always calls twice a week, and I think it's so she can convince herself - and, maybe, God - that she tried, and I'm the one with the problem. The reason that I won't block her, though, is because I'm still holding on to the little hope that she still cares, and she dies a little every time I deliberately send her to my voice mail.

I make my way to Charlene's office as I look over the portfolio I created over the weekend with Jamal and a few additions from Edward - I trust him: he's a PR genius. However, I sometimes don't understand his work or his method, and today is one of the instances where his work eludes me. And I need to understand it if I am to sell this concept to Charlene.

After a soft knock, I am granted permission to go inside.

"Miss Brown," Charlene acknowledges me curtly.

We exchange niceties, and she gets coffee and asks to see my work.

"Explain," she demands dryly.

"Right! As I had explained the other day, the goal of this campaign is to exploit the mutually beneficial relationship between Calvin Klein and Guess, and to use said relationship to integrate his two fanbases.