I spin my ring on my index finger with my thumb three times, in sync with each affirmation. I blink hard, and once again, I am staring at my carefully decorated powder room instead of being burned at the stake with a stranger calling me by a different name.
My pounding pulse slowly returns to normal, yet I remain astonished that I’ve had an episode. I must need more sleep and less stress since I haven’t had a waking dream in several years. Not since my disastrous last attempt at visiting my father after my mom’s passing. Stress, lack of sleep, and strong emotions can all be triggers. Guess I can add burns to that list now, too.
The dreams are never pleasant, either. Of course, my brain doesn’t conjure images of lovely things like puppies and rainbows. Rather, I dream of a thousand ways to die, of shadowy figures, and distant lands. Of profound heartbreak and loss so crushing, I’ve undoubtedly cried an ocean.
My distressed parents took me to multiple specialists, mostly psychiatrists, with a few religious leaders sprinkled in. I preferred the former, who eventually labeled me with hypnagogic hallucinations, over the latter, who thought I was waging a spiritual battle for my soul. Scary shit for a kid either way.
Since I didn’t fit into any other neat little boxes, both my parents and the specialists were comfortable with this label, right or wrong. Merely a sleep disorder—no mental health problems allowed in this family.
I wouldn’t have had an issue with an accurate diagnosis, no matter what it was. Especially if it could have helped me receive the right treatment. My parents’ generation didn’t understand and still attached a lot of stigmas to mental health. And unfortunately, society still does. My brief career in nursing was confirmation of that.
Truthfully, that mouthful of a label didn’t at all fit, but I was content to leave well enough alone when my parents started getting more and more worried. After they brought up inpatient treatment or a religious retreat as a last resort, I let them label me with whatever they wanted knowing I was better left to my own devices.
Labels have no power. Or at least that was what Dr. Sam had reassured me. I told myself I simply have waking dreams. During the day and not while falling asleep. But no one else seemed to care about that last bit.
I learned to quit talking about yet another piece of me, and my parents stopped asking. And if I minded my stress and got enough sleep, I did fine. Really. Fine, fine, everything is fine.
The burning fades to a dull throb. I grab a paper towel off the octopus tentacle holder and gently blot my hand dry, followed by the faint sheen of sweat that had broken out on my face, careful not to smudge my makeup. Too bad my guardian angel hadn’t saved me from this scald.
Deep breaths,I remind myself, noting my pale and worried reflection in the mirror. Schooling my expression as pleasantly as I can muster to greet the customer, I fill my now empty cup with water to rinse the green splashes from the sink.
“Mea culpa. I didn’t mean to startle you,” comes a voice like honey poured over ice, dark and low, musical and somehow strangely exotic yet simultaneously so damn familiar. In a world where communication happens at lightning speed, the slower and more formal speech grabs my attention.
The timbre caresses my ears, sends a tingle across my scalp, curls around my neck, and licks down my spine. I shiver deliciously. Today might turn out okay after all. The voice sounds straight from the pages of one of my late-night reads and pulls me back from the vestiges of the waking dream to the reality of the moment.
Although I am pissed about my shitty coffee order and the minor burn on my hand, while also worried about the recurrence of the so-called dreams, this voice intrigues me. I finish rinsing out the sink and throw over my shoulder, “How did you get in without me hearing the bells on the door?”
As a happy shop owner, this, of course, is not my usual greeting. But I’m more than a little thrown off my game. When no one answers, I come out of the powder room and glance around.
“Hello?” Seeing no one, I call out again, “Hello? Where did you go?”
Still, no one responds. Lucifer is sitting in front of the door, staring unblinkingly and twitching his tail. Strange, he rarely leaves his perch in the window, so still that he blends in with the taxidermy critters around the store. Rattled, I wonder if cats really can sense things humans can’t.
The massive black tom with a tattered ear came with the building. He is incredibly independent, more of a fixture than something that needs care. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of a creature that surely no one would adopt, a fellow misfit. At least I think he stays because of the building.
Although I don’t think I have much of a choice in the matter since he comes and goes as he pleases. He largely ignores both me and the customers, but at least his presence offsets the emptiness in my apartment above the shop. When he chooses to come in, anyway.
I shake my faintly throbbing hand and throw the now-empty cup in the garbage. A faint prickling on the back of my neck causes me to check around the store to make sure no one is hiding out. I hurriedly check the small kitchen and even behind the checkout counter, but find no one.
The emergency exit in the back remains locked. There aren’t many places to hide. I had converted most of the first floor into one large showroom. It is a long narrow building like the other row homes crammed cheek by jowl on this road.
Besides falling in love with the old green building, I knew the real estate alone would be worth the investment, even if Grimm were to fail. But I wouldn’t let it. I am tenacious.
And five years in, I am doing well. I have solid contacts and a stream of oddities coming in from around the world. I am establishing not only a business but a name for myself in the community as a fair but scrupulous and exacting businesswoman.
Albeit one who is losing her mind. I thought someone had startled me and I'm certain I heard a voice. And Luciferneveracts this way. He’s the laziest and most antagonistic cat I’ve ever met.
So where is the owner of the disembodied voice? Who is he? I thought I had pulled myself out of my waking dream, but perhaps the voice had been part of it, too. I frown and lecture myself that I need more sleep, less sugar, and clearly less late-night fiction. Maybe even a nicer pet for some stress relief. Too bad Lucifer would probably eat it.
I easily convince myself I had dreamed the whole incident as I hadn’t seen anyone distinctly, and it had been a stressful morning. I have an overactive imagination on a good day, even without waking dreams, or so I’d always been told.Besides, cats are always weird,I tell myself reassuringly.
The front doorbells jingle as customers come in, and I’m thankful that I can see these people. Lucifer jumps back to his spot in the window, curls up with his tail over his nose, and is once again oblivious to the world around him.
Must be nice buddy,I think, wishing I could hide so easily from my troubles. I shake off the prickling sensation dancing across the back of my neck and direct my knee-high platform Docs to the front of the store, putting my proprietor game face firmly back into place.
Several hours later, I gratefully plop down on the rickety stool behind the counter. The morning rush is over and my stomach growls loudly. The dry biscotti had been disappointing without a latte and my body is crashing from the lack of caffeine coupled with the excitement of the day.
I need protein and a nap. One out of the two will have to do. My hand is faintly pink from the earlier burn and starts throbbing now that I am no longer distracted by the steady throng of customers. At least the sales were great today.
