Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The Dangerous Lives of Caffeine Dreams
I'm not sure how to make these things official, so you'll just have to take it on faith that I'm doing my best with what I can remember from movies.LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of M. PETER BENJAMIN GRAY
It should be noted that I wish to be buried in my family's plot at my mother's house at 5117 Highway 37 North near Springfield, Massachusetts. The condo should go to my neice, Jenny Ann Fuller; my car, a 2000 Toyota Corolla, should go to her mother, Barbara Leigh Fuller. The remainder of my assets...
It should be noted that I wish to be buried in my family's plot at my mother's house at 5117 Highway 37 North near Springfield, Massachusetts. The condo should go to my neice, Jenny Ann Fuller; my car, a 2000 Toyota Corolla, should go to her mother, Barbara Leigh Fuller. The remainder of my assets...
...except I don't have anyone, not anyone real, to give the rest of it to. And to tell you the truth, I don't really have anyone. I haven't spoken with Jen or Barb in years.
...seeing as I never paid enough attention, and now I'm writing my goddamn will and I can't think of a single charity other than the Red Cross. I can see my headstone now:
I need more coffee; my eyes are starting to slip shut.
I'm back. Now to the testament part, though I think I started it.
I haven't slept in a week. I saw a something outside my window last Thursday, and I haven't wanted to, since. See, this building is in a good neighborhood. The street lamps all work, the police come around often enough. You never hear about ladies having to use those cans of mace they carry in their purses, or men having to give up their wallets to some punks.
But last Thursday, I looked down out of my window, and there were children dancing. And they didn't look like children much, at all - they were painted and caked with filth and - I can't describe, I don't want to imagine what it was, because it could have been anything, blood or -
They were dancing there in the dark around a barrel fire. I know I was awake, I'd had too much coffee, I was wired, not tired. And there they were, and there was a shout that shook my window, and one of them stopped. The one that stopped - he, she, it - held something up in one hand, something pale and red and it moved like thick cloth as he waved it around. They cheered, and then they started breaking windows, and I ran back from the window because I didn't have to be near it to hear the screaming.
I can still hear it, and I haven't fallen asleep because sometimes there's a lull just long enough that it makes me think it's over, but then I hear it again. I've heard the cheap thudding of feet up the stairs, like a herd of animals moving for me. I'll stay awake, because I know they're coming for me.
...assets, amounting to approximately $123,000 in various stocks, bonds and funds, should be donated to the Red Cross...
...seeing as I never paid enough attention, and now I'm writing my goddamn will and I can't think of a single charity other than the Red Cross. I can see my headstone now:
PETER GRAY
1971-2006
HE WAS AN UNTHOUGHTFUL MAN
1971-2006
HE WAS AN UNTHOUGHTFUL MAN
I need more coffee; my eyes are starting to slip shut.
I'm back. Now to the testament part, though I think I started it.
I haven't slept in a week. I saw a something outside my window last Thursday, and I haven't wanted to, since. See, this building is in a good neighborhood. The street lamps all work, the police come around often enough. You never hear about ladies having to use those cans of mace they carry in their purses, or men having to give up their wallets to some punks.
But last Thursday, I looked down out of my window, and there were children dancing. And they didn't look like children much, at all - they were painted and caked with filth and - I can't describe, I don't want to imagine what it was, because it could have been anything, blood or -
They were dancing there in the dark around a barrel fire. I know I was awake, I'd had too much coffee, I was wired, not tired. And there they were, and there was a shout that shook my window, and one of them stopped. The one that stopped - he, she, it - held something up in one hand, something pale and red and it moved like thick cloth as he waved it around. They cheered, and then they started breaking windows, and I ran back from the window because I didn't have to be near it to hear the screaming.
I can still hear it, and I haven't fallen asleep because sometimes there's a lull just long enough that it makes me think it's over, but then I hear it again. I've heard the cheap thudding of feet up the stairs, like a herd of animals moving for me. I'll stay awake, because I know they're coming for me.
...save the timeshare off of St. Martin for when Jenny gets married; she can have it for her honeymoon.
One more night; another cup.
Post a Comment