Gasping, I thrashed out at the empty darkness ahead of me. I unwillingly opened my eyes, expecting to see a cold, lifeless corpse in front of me. Yet, there was nothing. The steering wheel and dashboard, the back of a large semi truck in front of us. The sky was black, full of stars that winked at me when I looked up. My mouth nearly dropped open--just a little--at the sight before me. Nevada, still in one piece. No arms out of their sockets, no shaky legs. Her hair combed to one side of her head, eyes closed as she slept in peace.
Maybe I smiled; I couldn't be sure. Careful not to disturb her, I unlocked the door on my side, and pushed the handle. Slowly, it creaked open, and a blast of cool air hit me in the face. We had parked at a truck stop. A long dirt lane on the side of the highway, public washrooms and four lights that lit up when it got dark and went out at dawn. I crossed the road to stand upon the grass, where the line of gravel and dirt stopped and grass began, and the road dipped into a valley of trees and bushes.
If there was any noise, I didn't hear a thing. I was zoned out, replaying the dream over and over again in my head. Seeing her, pulling back that trigger and firing. Shuddering, I sat down and lay on my back. See? I told you. You're already beginning to fantasize about it.
"Shut up," I said aloud, not caring if anyone could hear.
I'm just telling you. You know what you dreamt, you know what you saw. You'll remember it too, when the day finally comes that you snap and shoot her. Or stab her. It doesn't matter.
"I'm not going to kill her," I seethed, clasping my hands together in a tight grip. "That dream meant nothing. I wouldn't dare do something like that to her."
Because you love her, hm?
The sudden anger died down. Slightly, though. It was still there. There was silence all around me, a deep, deep silence. I do.
I could almost hear a laugh in that silence. I warned you! I warned you, didn't I? I told you to pull back before you kissed her, and I told you to leave her phone in that barn on the ground. But no, you didn't. You had to go up that damn road and return it. This entire trip wouldn't have happened if you had kept that phone.
That was true. Pushing myself to my feet, I turned around and headed back to the truck. But I didn't hop back in; I stood there, staring at her through the window.
This entire thing started with that phone.
