The Dreamer

Pen of the Damned

Two hours later, she’s dead.

As I watch the ambulance take her away, I don’t feel anything. I didn’t know her, and
besides, it happens all the time. It’s not always two hours, mind you. Once it took a full three
weeks, but that’s the longest so far.

The shortest was about thirty seconds. That time, I had dozed off on the bus when the
dream—or whatever it was—came: a woman, a squeal of cars tires, no more woman. I jolted
awake in time to see her. The bus had stopped to let her cross, but the driver in the next lane
wasn’t feeling so courteous. The screech of brakes was muted by the bus windows and replaced
with the screams of passengers. Everyone was moving about, trying to see what had happened,
trying to make their voice heard in the mayhem. Shocked faces all around.

I didn’t move. I…

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