Sleep Is Death

Entry 2

September 17, 2010

Friday

9:06 AM

Last night, I dreamed that I was cycling down my childhood street, Newark Drive, but when I looked down, I wasn't on a bike. I cruised down the middle of the street, brightened by the lamps' orange glow.

I passed Nissans, Cruisers, and Jalopies, but when I looked in the windows at my reflection, instead of icy blonde waves with dark roots and blue tips, I saw my old self. The girl in middle school with auburn bangs and pigtails barely reaching past her shoulders. A girl who had seen her grandfather die of old age, her uncle of alcoholism, and another of cancer. Neither of the three were close enough for me to mourn at the times that they passed, but it still weighed on me.

Where do we go when we die? Why is it that when we die and our family and friends stand over our caskets, they say we look like we're sleeping?

Is death synonymous with sleep? Why is it like the distant cousin or the creepy relative we try to avoid and cringe when they're near?

I rode toward the only house with the porch light on, and instead of parking my imaginary bike, I continued up the long driveway, approaching a dark SUV with the trunk facing me. I crossed the grass, passed gnomes and lights, went up the steps, and then stopped at the door.

The doorbell rang without me touching it. Moments later, the door slowly creaked open, and I was flooded with the sound of laughter and light.

There was a round table made from real wood sitting in the middle of the foyer with a red, black, and green rug under it. I remember being fixated on the golden tassels and the mandala art style. There were paintings, plants, drapes, a case of records as tall as a bookshelf, and family portraits.

I recognized the house as a slightly inaccurate memory of my best friend's mom's house. The woman, Claire, was newly divorced, and looking back, I know now that she wasn't taking it well.

Even in my dream, she was sitting on the bottom stairs with a cigarette in her left hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She stared pensively at her pedicured feet, grazing her bottom lip with her left thumb while the cigarette dripped from her index finger and middle finger.

I cycled up the stairs, passing through her like a ghost as I followed the sound of laughter and talking.

I heard a faint, warbled voice. It was like my ears were stuffed, or I was trapped in a bubble. She said, "I have his AIM," and I stopped at the open door to the right. Straight ahead was another door-the bathroom-and across the hall from the door beside me was another bedroom. Between the master bedroom and the bathroom was a nursery. Between me and the master bedroom were the banister and spindles overlooking the foyer.

The room was overwhelmingly prissy, as I remember from then. Pastel pink paint, off-white carpeting, antique bed rails, and frilly bedding. She had posters of Leonardo DiCaprio, Hilary Duff, and the Olsen Twins taped to the wall behind her plastic Hello Kitty desk. She sat at her computer with two of her friends standing over her; a pigtailed brunette to her left and one with a Rachel haircut on her right.

The girl with pigtails started turning her head to look at me over her shoulder, but the door slammed between us before our eyes could meet.

⌦ .｡.:*♡

A.N. Due to the epistolary style, some chapters will be shorter, but for the extremely short chapters, another will be posted. The next part will be on May 24, 2024, at noon EST.

Also, when I mentioned letting me know if there are any errors, I meant plot holes and grammar issues outside of dialogue (unless even in dialogue, it looks like I made a mistake.)

Thank you for reading, and I look forward to seeing your comments!