Night Life

Chapter 1

I dreamed again last night.

This is relatively normal for most people. I say "most people" because I am not most people, and I say "relatively" because normal is a relative term. Though however relative "normal" may be, these dreams are certainly not anywhere near there. I don't think others have dreams, every night, about fighting the same person. At least not dreams this vivid. And dreams that don't end until you get knocked out in them. Or have your alarm go off. That's what happened today, actually. My alarm beeping loudly next to me and yanking me awake mid-punch. I don't wonder, anymore, what it looks like to the person I'm fighting, and I haven't in years. Not since the same thing happened to them. It looks really strange, honestly, just disappearing into thin air.

I roll out of bed, attempting to land on fingers and toes but overbalancing because I'm still half asleep. I sit on the floor for a few seconds, attempting to wake up but almost drifting back off. I jolt myself awake and head to the bathroom.

Half an hour later I sit on the bus, headphones in and electric guitars wailing, shivering despite my layered army-style coat and favorite grey hoodie. My black curly hair is still a bit wet, and it drips on my shoulders. At least it didn't freeze today. I hate the cold. It makes me tired and weak. I can't be weak. My physical fitness is reflected in the dreams and I despise being too weak to punch properly.

School passes in a blur as usual. No friends to add color to my day and it drags by in shades of grey boredom. It's not a challenge, thankfully, because then I'd have to pay attention. And maybe this makes me a bad person, but I really don't like being awake, and paying attention only makes the experience seem to go by more slowly. I enjoy the dreams, though. They make me feel alive, veins pumping pure adrenaline and mind giving over to instinct. I live more when I sleep than when I'm awake.

When I get home, it's to an empty house. My family is rarely around. My dad travels a lot for his job and my mom is more often than not at some sort of meeting, and my brother shipped off to Iraq 7 months ago. I spend my evening the same almost every night- first I go through my workout regimen which is really the highlight of my day, then I eat a dinner that I've cooked. I taught myself how to cook at an early age, relying on the internet for recipes at first after a particularly disastrous week where I ate nothing but takeout and then spent the next monday at home, bent over a trashcan half the day. Now I cook like a veritable gourmet chef, eating cheeseburgers and steaks and chicken breasts. Our fridge, luckily, is pretty well stocked. My parents get paid well for their time away. And honestly I don't miss them. Again, maybe that makes me a bad person but... oh well. I can live with that.

I finish up my night by curling up on the couch for at least a few hours and reading. Books are lovely, transporting me to someone else's life that usually, while maybe less interesting at night (at least less of my particular sort of interesting), are mostly much nicer during the day. They're also good for wasting time when really all I want to do is sleep. I don't bother going to bed too early anymore, though, because the empty arena is no fun when you're alone.

Finally, it's 10 and I know I won't be alone when I go to sleep. I brush my teeth and change into girl boxers and an oversized t-shirt that used to be my brother's, and climb into bed. I'm exhausted, like usual, and fall asleep in minutes. I open my eyes to the familiar arena and blink. I'm outside the one that looks like a boxing ring. I smile, letting my oddly sharp canines show. This will be fun. I climb between the ropes and lean against them, waiting for my partner. I think we live in the same time zone because we always show up within a few minutes of each other. But that's all I know about them, because whenever we try to tell each other our names or where we live or anything else about ourselves we wake up. I've long ago accepted that I'm probably never going to find my sparring partner in my waking hours. I don't know anything about them, and it's a big country.

They arrive, and we grin at each other. This is our favorite place to fight. We know the drill, memorized it years ago. We circle around each other, and tonight I throw the first punch. They duck, and punch back. I block and feel the familiar surge of energy. I let myself drift away in it, blocking and ducking and kicking and punching and thoroughly enjoying myself. This time, I'm not the one to be knocked out, but I fade back to my room soon after. I suppose whoever's running this thing figures that we've finished for the night when one of us gets tired enough to slip up that badly.