Watch Your Step

𝐃𝐫𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝟏

Fear not...for we will meet soon...sooner than you think...He gasped. Limuel Brenner had just awoken from a dream. Although he couldn't remember it, he knew it was a dreadful one. His lips were crusting and his throat was arid as though it was freshly rubbed by sandpaper. He immediately drank the glass of water he spared on his nightstand. However, it did not quench his thirst.

3:00 am. Another dry dream. He thought as he looked at his watch beside the empty glass. Instead of getting another glass of water, he stayed on his bed, hoping to go back to his slumber. But Limuel knew it was impossible. After one to two hours in a corpselike position and keeping his eyes tightly shut, he would still be awake. He wished he could just knock himself out. Oh, how he wished he could.

Nevertheless, it's better dry waking up than wet, Limuel mused. People his age either drool or start to wet their beds again. By dawn, he has nothing else to do except his first chore to start the day. Since his wife, Serene, had gone missing, Limuel was left to water her plants in the yard daily. But without having enough sleep and because of his arthritis, the pail he used to fetch became too heavy for his frail limbs. Being a regular salesman in a paper company, sitting all day, didn't help him much either. His jowls aquiver, his back hurt, and his shoulder arched. 

Though, he need not unwire the old hose in the shed for there are only twenty or so potted plants to water — aligned like colorful pods of paint on a palette. A variety of pink roses, honeysuckle, marigolds, and poppies. He did his best to give them the love like Serene did. He loved the plants at the same time he envied how they're brimming with life. Every few days, he would cut the lawn, tend to the flowers, and sweep yellowing leaves. Even so, he wasn't a young man anymore.

He was now wearing his wristwatch. 8 am, it said. An hour before his appointment with a psychiatrist. The telly was on, decimating news on recent bombings and shootings in a nearby town. Shortly after he had breakfast, he could already feel his energy depleting. For if you didn't have enough sleep, food is your only source of energy. In addition, due to Limuel's old age, his sense of taste was not as sharp as it was. His throat was always itchy-dry which prevented him from eating sufficient amounts. When he was a kid, his mother always taught him to say thank you every after meal but now he only burped, said excuse me, and nothing else.

He wore a polo shirt, a suit-coat, gray slacks, and black shoes as he left the house. He hailed a taxi once and luckily it was available. Once in a while, children whose seemingly just skin and bones with snot dripping from their noses would knock on the back of the taxi. They reeked of sewers and rotting garbage so Limuel rolled his window up. Then, he looked at his watch, 9:10 am, the hands pointed. He's late.