That night I had a dream…
I dreamt about an adopted kid being brought up by his brother…
…as time rolled by, that kid grew up liking him – loving him…
...he was 19 when he confessed, his brother turned out to have the same feelings…
…and they started seeing each other as a person, not a brother-to-brother relationship…
…
…
…
What a lousy dream…
The day began like every other day for Arthur Kirkland, he woke up haunted by the same dream he had the day before, and the one before, and the one before that as well; the same dream that have been seeping through his skin for months.
"God" he gasped, feeling faintly nauseous.
He had his left palm on his forehead and froze still for a few minutes until a familiar tone rang unto his ears; it was Coldplay's Clocks, his ringtone.
Arthur reached out to the phone without the intention of picking it up, he only wanted to see the caller – it read "Jones, Alfred", the last person Arthur wanted to speak to. Sure enough Alfred called again; he's not happy that his call went to voicemail, but Arthur didn't care, he got up and left the phone in his bed, ringing.
Arthur went to the bathroom to wash his face, for a brief moment he stared at his reflection in the mirror: it was of a man, on his mid-20s, his pale shade of a face almost looked as white as snow. Arthur had been taking note of this man in the mirror; his face looked paler with the passing of every single day, this man clearly is transforming to a morbid being.
Arthur turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, not caring that it was mid-winter in London. Sure enough, the cold water starts to sting him; his face, almost frozen.
…but this is what he wanted, he wanted to know if he could feel pain – he wanted to know if he was alive.
It wasn't quite surprising that pills were becoming part of his daily diet, these include aspirin, Prozac and one of those sleep drugs. He battled against severe insomnia and insuppressible headaches for a long while now. Right around this point of time, he would take the aspirin. At least two pills, maybe more, more than what the doctor recommended in the prescription note.
Yes, he was, in a few words, very fucked up.
After a gulp of the tablets he went up and looked at the clock, 5 AM, a bit too early for waking up, he thought, but I can't sleep after all that now, can I?
Arthur buttoned up a light blue shirt, wore his khaki pants and took a coat. The next minute, he was out.
Of course it would be crazy going out in a mid-winter London with just two layers, he could've gotten a cold, but Arthur did not care nonetheless. It was another chilly 5 AM in the morning, where the sheer coldness seemed to pierce to the very core of his bones.
He did not even tilt to react on how the cold breeze pierced his bones.
He walked.
He walked, not knowing how far it is from where he started.
He walked, not knowing where his feet would take him before it failed.
He walked, not knowing what has been bothering him so far.
He walked, not knowing when he will stop.
He walked, not knowing why he had to do this mundane routine.
He walked and walked, seemingly pondering aimlessly.
He just walked.
Step after long step, he realized he was trying to shrug his recurring dream from his head but no matter how long he walked, or how did the winter draft froze his bone, like a clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball; he would see it, every detail in perfect repetition - in cycles, even. It felt that in his head, the dream was playing an unending loop.
He finally just gave up and sat on the bench nearby, this time, that familiar tone of Coldplay had hummed again to his ear.
"What is it that you want with me Alfred?" He pressed the green button before verifying who's on the other end, his tone, surprisingly sharp.
"Arthur…? It's me, Matthew" a soft voice rang towards Arthur's ear; it was, by no means, Alfred's.
Fuck, he thought for a while before replying, "I'm… sorry Matt," a pause "I don't know what's gotten into me" another pause, this one lasted for almost 40 seconds "Yes, Matthew, whatever is your business, calling at this early hour?"
"It's… not that early anymore right?" Arthur observed his wristwatch; the longer arrow pointed out to 6 and the shorter, somewhere between 9 and 10, "…I could call later, if you haven't fully sobered up."
Arthur slightly lamented on his four-and-a-half hour walk, "no Matt, I've been not paying attention to time, I'm sorry…" Whatever it is you're saying, Matt, about me not fully fresh from my slumber, was the inverse, "Yes, Matt, what is it?"
"Arthur, are you okay?"
"Yes, I am," he sounded a bit certain there, a pause, eventually his gut feeling made him say "…but then again, maybe I'm not…"
"I'll come over, Arthur," Said the man in the other end of the line, his tone seemed a bit worried "you're still in your house, right?"
"No, I'm not sure where I am" Arthur answered, and eyeing whatever that could give him a bit of a hint from left to right "I'm near the hill on the intersection between Queen's Avenue and 12th street."
"I'll be there soon" was the last words that Matthew gave Arthur before hanging up.
Arthur's mind was scattered all over the place, he was trying to piece back, one by one the fragments that are spread among the ground. He sat patiently in the bench.
He was waiting for Matthew to come over.
He was waiting for someone to let his uncertainty out.
He was waiting.
He was waiting.
He was waiting for his dreams to vanish.