Fever Dream

The voices were out of control, whispering thoughts of their own. I lay in bed, questioning my sanity. Shivers followed the lines of sweat down my back. My eyes slowly opened, gazing past the two boob shaped light fixtures that usually remain dark. Twelve unique voices spoke over one another. One was a young boy, shy and hesitant in what he said. Another was an old hag, speaking through flem and terribly fitted dentures. Despite all the noise swarming the room, or at least my head, nothing was clearly said. Just partial phrases caught between the arguments. I demanded the voices be silent.

They listened and it was quiet gentleness. One by one, they returned though. First a middle aged man intent on robbing a bank just once. He spoke with the old hag. It sounded like she was advising him not to, but the flem was too much. The most beautiful voice was feminine, a slightly drawled southern accent hailing from somewhere near the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina. I picked that voice out. She led me out of the bank robbery debate into the school yard. The swings and sandbox were empty. Charlie and Lance were bullying poor Timmy, the name I gave the hesitant boy. As Timmy spoke, he uttered the start of each word again and again. 

“Ca-ca-ca-ca-ca can y-y-y-y-y-you sta-st-sto-stop?” Timmy begged.

Lance bent over Timmy and laughed in his face. “I-I-I can. Bu-bu-bu-bu but I won’t.”

I grabbed Lance by his belt, squatted, and launched him in the air. Charlie hauled ass. 

“Th-th-th thanks, mi-mi-mi-mister,” Timmy said.

North Carolina called me up from the playground without a moment to bid young Timmy a farewell. I’m sure he’d grow up to be a fine lad. Like a rocket, I sped up towards the voice. I started to see a face: small set mouth, maple hair, hazel eyes. Each feature came separately, slowly morphing into a recognizable face. My own senses were coming back to me. I heard soft piano music. My hands felt the black blanket wrapped around my face.I wasn’t soaring through space anymore. I yanked the blanket down to the scorching light of day.

My phone read 7:30 am. I felt the first cough of the day welling up like a good cry. It was time to get up. For what? I was delirious. Today would be good for watching nearly all of The Stand, a totally inappropriate show for a sick individual. But it was time to assess its closeness to the novel by Steven King. I wished the North Carolina gal would come back. But she was gone.