He woke up screaming aloud. His hands were trembling. The nightmare had returned. Hauntingly. He fell asleep around nine that night, wanting to catch up on some overdue time in bed. His day however would not let him, his day was invading his night. The day to be precise. The dream was this. A boy, about the age of seventeen was riding on a bus. Perhaps the school bus going home. He looked out the window, dreamingly. Then it would happen. He would unzip the smaller pouch of his knapsack, reaching in with a trembling hand. From it he would remove a small pistol. The boy would stare directly into the barrel, seeing nothing but the black emptiness inside. With a shot he would awake screaming, as if he himself were the boy.

With a cold sweat upon his body, he got up out of bed. The clock said 4a.m. this time. Slipping into a robe he quietly walked down the hall, his bare feet tickled from below by the carpet. He reached into the cabinet, pulling out a large glass. Opening the fridge he retrieved a pint of milk, pouring it into the glass, but only filling it halfway. He pulled out a chair and sat down. The moon was nowhere in sight outside, the room was dark except for the clock on the microwave. The humming of the fridge was the only sound he heard. There he sat, staring at the milk in his hand. He began to nod off to sleep again. Catching himself, he blinked three times to clear his head. He drank from the glass of milk. It was warm. He thought that must be what death is like, sleep. You don't see the moment coming and you never remember it after. Only with death the waking wouldn't come. Picking himself up out of the chair he shuffled back into bed, wondering when the dreams would stop.

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