Fatal Memories

Chapter 7: Wake Me Up

Not Edited

Chapter 7: Wake Me Up

May 15, 2014

Gwen Point of View

           I was too astounded to move from out my seat. How could Mr. Wolli be this old? I saw him barely two days ago and he was a young-vibrate man with his little daughter but they had aged so much. “This is all a bad dream,’ I whisper to myself before my gaze flicker across the diner over to see the waitress fanning her father redden face with a menu.

           “Is that Gwen,” the old man mumbles. “I haven’t seen that face in 25 years,” he draws on. The waitress glance back at me and I lower my gaze to the table to avoid her gaze.

                   “Dad, that’s not Gwen,” the waitress says. “I vaguely remember my own babysitter but that’s not her,” the waitress says. “Gwen died 25 years ago.”

         My eyes widen in horror and the old man makes a grungy sound. “Are you Gwen, tell me, please?” the old man begs. My eyes widen barely stayed focus on Mr. Wolli direction before I stumble to my feet. I didn’t die 25 years ago! It barely been two days and everybody aged. I was still the same. I had to be!

             “I’m—not Gwen,” I say with a shake of my head. I rush toward the door of the diner. A few males enter the diner just as I rush out. I bump into them even one grab my forearm, settling me to my feet.

             “It’s pouring raining out,” the male that settle me to my feet, speaks but I barely made a gesture to thank him because all I was thinking of running out of this diner. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go out there or you can get sick,” he says, trying to convince me stay in the diner. I jerk my arm away from him and I shook my head.

                  “No, I will be fine,” I whisper and I push open the diner glass doors and I rush out into the freezing rain.  I didn’t bother to look around as I took off running, the sandals I had on was soak as they soles stomp against the wet pavement but I continue to run.  I couldn’t concentrate because my thoughts were bouncing all over the place and I wheeze trying to catch my breath.

         ‘How did I die?’

‘How could everyone I knew age in just two days?’

‘Did days just pass or did 25 years go by?’

 ‘How long did I spend at that beach?’

 ‘Where was my mother, my brother?’

       My running leads me to SAINT MAY CEMETERY and I slow down into a jogging pace. I enter the parted black-steel gates and down a curvy paved road that lead to the graves.  I gulp, fear tugging at the pit of stomach with worry. If I was dead than I will see, my headstone and I will wake up from this nightmare. I turn my gaze towards a small adobe house that was the cemetery headquarters. I brush my soak hair out my face and I approach the house.

          The heavy front oak door was unlocked, I enter with ease into a cozy living room but it a draft atmosphere, and the only noise was coming from a crackling fire in the fireplace. “Hello,” I call out and I stand near the doorway, not venturing any further in the house.

                  Further, in the house I heard something fall and follow by heavy footsteps. My fingers ball up the ending wet fabric of my, ‘Micheal Jackson,’ Tee shirt as I rock back and fro on my heels.