Displaced

Timber - Forty

Sleep came a bit faster that night than the one before. Like usual, I slept like a rock. I can't remember the last time I had a dream. Supposedly, people dream all the time, but it's not something I'm aware of doing. In the past, when I did remember my dreams, they were always vague anyway. Vague or scary.

Maybe not recalling what happens in my night adventures is a sign of the quality of rest I get. I'd heard if a person doesn't remember their dreams, then they're getting better sleep. Of course, I've also heard that if a person doesn't sleep much, their body will make the most of the time they're given. My brain was probably starving for REM since I'm usually more of an insomniac.

So long as I didn't crash hard, that's all that mattered. I'd been known to do that. Work a lot, sleep a little, come home and sleep for days until I recovered.

Chevelle, on the other hand, dreamed practically every night. I could tell because she rolled, talked, kicked around, and woke up with rather large dark circles around her eyes. The past handful of mornings we've shared she went straight for the coffee and drank it like it was her blood. She was drinking her third cup of coffee when there was a knock on our apartment door.

Curious, I went over to answer. Chevelle rolled her eyes at me, her body half sitting. I guess she wanted to open the door too. Oops. Hopefully, no one saw that and thought it disrespectful. It's not like I can read her mind and know everything she wants to do. Besides, she was kind of being uptight about small things. I did not deserve that eye roll.

When I opened the door and saw Paul standing there, I stepped back. "Uh, hi."

I'm not sure why his presence startled me so much. We'd seen him just about every other day so far. Paul meant business, so I assumed he was coming to either take me away, or with some other form of bad news.

He walked in and took a good look around. The place was still pristine. Shocking, since I tended to be more on the messy side of things. Whatever he was evaluating, he seemed pleased because he nodded a few times before smiling.

"Yes, this will do," he said.

"What?" Chevelle asked, from the dining room. She stood and walked over to us, folding her arms in front of her.

Paul gave her a slight bow. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? Good morning. I'm here to begin the second stage of your integration."

I didn't like that word.

"And stage one was what?" She asked. "Kidnapping us, and giving us a few days to cry it out?"

"If you want to look at it in such a harsh manner, yes, that's what stage one was. Along with seeing the premise, of course. Have you gotten a full tour yet?" Paul still smiled, and I kind of wanted to punch it off of his face. He had no sense of empathy, no matter how hard he liked to pretend.

Chevelle shook her head. "Haven't had much motivation to go outside, to be honest."

"That's a shame, because the fresh air will help with the depression. Meeting more of your peers will help you relax some. Plus, there are many distractions for you to enjoy on the rooftop." Paul winked.

Sighing, I started to clear the dirty plates off of the table. If only so I could have something to do, though Chevelle would probably get irritated by that too. Being a Susie Homemaker was not what I wanted to be doing with my time. I just needed something to do.

Paul must have been able to read my mind. "Perhaps having a job will make you feel more comfortable and give you some more distraction to help you. It'll give you a sense of normalcy, purpose, and will make this place feel more like home."