Mr. X and I

1- Settle For Some Sleep

He had brown hair and hazel-blue eyes... Somehow it worked. Made him seem innocent. Though he was a cold-blooded murderer. His name is Mr. X.

That's what the news was talking about. Mr. X's most recent death. He's dead. After all his killings, he was found dead in the Cumberland park. He'd been strangled. The way he strangled one of his victims. With a chloroform and a chain necklace. The Chief of police held a meeting in the town hall explaining that Mr. X deserved what he got and they would not search for the man or woman who felt it was their obligation to kill him.

When I'd heard this, my eyes had just opened. See, I'm what my society calls a dreamer. Someone who can remember their dreams. They call it lucid dreaming. My mother taught me when I was very young. But, say I couldn't lucid dream, the government would therefore cast me out. Dreamers are vital to our society. We see the future, the past, and we can even eat sins. In a way. I'm not yet at the age to be an official dreamer but then again being an amature dreamer has its perks.

My last dream was a peacefull one. The trees could speak and so could the wind. The wind is called crylers in my dream. They cried and sang the ever changing world's song. They were there to see the poverty, but today, there was none. The peoples of Africa had clean water, and bountiful vaccines for different plagues and diseases. It was a wonderful sight. But again I'm only an amature dreamer, my dreams aren't pure yet. Meaning my dreams can't be trusted until I'm eighteen.

On that note, sometimes I do have dreams that are true. Like one time my best friend Angela had a birthday party and she passed out from an anxiety attack. It was scary, but I knew she'd be alright because the dream showed that she came home smiling.

I never had the heart to tell her I knew. And speaking of the deary now that's who's calling me.

"Hello, Angela dear." I could feel her cheeky smile.

"Hello, Maryana, did you hear about Mr. X?"

"Yes, and what a relief." I reply.

"Yes.." silence. "On the contrary though, would you like to go out for some coffee?"

"Sure, but is something wrong?" I ask.

"I'll explain it all later. Grounds?"

"Of course."

We both hang up and lift myself up off the red swede couch to get ready. I don't usually sleep on the couch, but lately sleeps been finding me in akward places. Like I woke up one afternoon in my car, sound asleep.

So, from that point I slither to my bedroom and through to my closet. I pull out some dark denim pants and a baby blue v-neck t-shirt. Somehow the light and dark contrasts work. I also grab a white and blue scarf and wrap it around my neck. I pull on my snow coat and grab my purse, keys, and wallet as I leave.

But before I could walk out the door I turn toward the tv. when the news reporter Stacy Glen says,

"We just recieved news that the man we retrieved earlier is NOT I repeat NOT Mr. X. The man we retrieved was wearing prosthetic makeup to look like Mr. X. He is still out there. Back to Bob Dells."

From that point I knew that something was very wrong with Angela. I left as quick as possible. If only I were quicker.

I knew Angela was a strong girl, but something was so wrong that she wasn't acting right.

My drive consisted of four red lights, incompetent taxi drivers, and one mini plaza right next to Winn-Dixie. Four shopettes from the end sat a lonely bakery called Grounds Cafe. However it became the beautiful little slice of work it is now, beats me. Inside the shoppe, sat three tables, two were occupied. The one nearest the far wall was occupied by Angela. I walked inside and took my seat across from her.