The lines blur between fantasy and dream but I remember the details all the same. I’m sitting in a chair I don’t recognize in a room that’s familiar. Sunlight filters through the blinds, and if I stare closely enough I can see dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.
I don’t care enough to stare closely. My laptop sits on my thighs — warm, warming, getting hot — and I don’t think about the threat of cancer from the heat penetrating my skin. My fingers are tap, tapping on the keyboard but it sounds off, foreign. I look down and and there are slices on my wrists and dark blood pooling. My bright pink keyboard cover is absent so the blood seeps in between the keys.
Somehow I stop typing but the words are a steady stream. Somehow I’m waiting for something but the words are a deluge, out of my control.