'The Weathered Man' & other works by Diego Reyes

He Walks At Night

I first started to notice that what I was doing regularly at 3AM was sleep-walking at the age of six or seven. My parents would catch me in random situations that had no purpose of happening: opening and closing the fridge, stepping outside to the driveway, or even scaring the dog by landing face-first into it's bowl of water. The funny thing about sleep-walking is the total silence of it all, at least with me. I usually trudge through out the day, sliding my feet instead of picking it up as I walk, and even my steps carry some weights to them. However, when day to turns to night and all the life stops to rest my walks seem to carry no warning of my presence.

My dad is the usual one to find me doing the strangest things. He gets up to work at 5, and is always expecting to see me doing the most outrageous things. Just last week I was holding our two-year old beagle, Pietro, and just waving him across the living room. Poor little guy.

We've gone to many psychologists about this when it first started, but nothing really struck them as anything serious.

I'm at the dinner table, now. My mother, father, little Pietro, and I sat there eating. The tv in the background provided white noise. It was channeled to the news, and was giving some uodate about a missing person or a missing dog. One of the two. Nothing really major happens in the town of Maryville, at least one tragic event a year. However, nobody really knows considering the town ignores the news. "Fake propaganda," they call it.

Today's dinner was teriyaki steak, fried rice and some vegetables. My mom pointed at my empty bowl, "Sammy, there's more if you want." I swallowed my last spoonful of rice, and politely declined. "Sam-man, how're you sleeping?" My dad asked. I gave a light laugh, "I don't know Pa, you tell me."

"No, you've been good. At least Pietro's okay." My mom laughed. I looked at little Pi, who couldn't care less of what we were saying. One of his floppy ears rested on the floor, and the other just gently covered his gray patched snout.

We clean off the dinner table, and I left my parents who were on the couch watching, or rather criticizing, the "fake propaganda."

Entering my room, one would point out the minimalism of it all. Only furniture present are the two nightstands and the queen sized bed. My dark blue neatly folded sheets were kept aglow by the mahogany wood candle by the side of my bed.

I'm not one to watch TV so there's none in my bedroom. I go back into bed, and just be on my phone until my eyes become heavy.

Which, they did.

Night #1

"Sammy." The sound of my dad's voice jolted me awake. I was back on my feet, and in the living room. Both his hands gripped my arms tightly. "Sam you went outside. Look." I tried to blink my way back into a state of awareness. He pointed to the front door which was wide open. "You never did that before. Are you okay? Do you feel anything?"

The sense of humiliation and unknown guilt pulsed in my body. My eyes darted to the living room clock and noticed that it was 3:47AM. "I'm sorry Dad, I don't even-"

"It's okay." He shook his head and trodded back to his room. I went to the front door. The sky was still dark, but the neighborhood was lit with bright streetlamps. Our front door was lead by a concrete step, and multiple concrete squares leading to the driveway. They were steps in a see of grass.

I looked to my feet, checked underneath, and noticed something strange. I don't have any dirt marks on the sole of my feet.

Night #2

The following night came, and my dad was joking with mom about what happened. My mom was just glad nothing dangerous occurred.

Mom's cooking filled me up too easily, I had to give up my bowl. The Italian truly kicked in tonight. "Nancy, we gotta watch out for that guy. Sam-man's g'nna take the Jaguar tonight." I rolled my eyes. Yeah, sure, the Jaguar that has the outdated engine. Starting up that car would jolt me awake enough to send it to the shop. "Take it easy, Sam, I'm just messing."