Sammy did not answer. He lowered his arm to his side with a sigh that almost covered the sound of the hammer clicking safely back into place. The figure in the mirror stared, its eyes locked on Sammy's. Sammy wondered if the dreams would return that night, if the figure knew, if it mattered, if there was anything he could do. He listened for the short, sharp staccato of the morning's bird. The figure cocked its ear, mocking him. The revolver landed on the carpet with a muffled, but resounding percussion. Sammy turned from the mirror. The figure's shoulders shook gently, miming derisive laughter, as it walked away and out of the room.
June's letter held no more answers than it had this morning or the night before. June had no answers. She was coming for a job. She was coming expecting Sammy to be Sammy with Lawrence as Lawrence just behind them. This was not the time. There was never a time for this. This had nothing to do with time. Time was not interested.
The clock told Sammy it was time to find out if the dreams were coming back. He creased the letter along the familiar and well worn folds, slipped it inside its envelope and laid it in the drawer of the desk. He slid the drawer closed, locking it with a small key that he had removed from a tack that stuck out from the side of the left leg of the desk, one and a half feet from the top and one and a half feet from the floor. Sammy returned the key to its tack and turned toward the bedroom. He turned out the light before entering, finding his way carefully to bed, lifting the blanket, and slipping in without removing his clothes.
It was warm that night. The sounds of the street below his window hissed like steam in the blackness of his room. His eyes shut. He imagined what the night sounded like inside the mirror. The mirror did not tell him.
Archiving all of these memories
2 years ago