MirrorMirror

7 / The Dream

Dreams are the playground of the mind.

The images our brains displayed while our bodies slumber would make little sense if we were to analyse them as they happened. Abrupt changes of location, clothing and even identity would leave us wondering about our own sanity. The adventures and horrors we were submitted to would make us fearful. Our minds, however, knew what they were doing. What it all meant if, indeed, it had meaning at all. To our minds, there was nothing untoward.

To our minds, flying, being in danger, and going shopping in the nude were entirely normal.

So, Cassidy's dream was also perfectly normal.

Elise was gone. The stresses whizzing around her like moons, as devoid of life as her, were gone too. Cass was living in his house, except it wasn't his house. The décor was fresher. It looked new, though with a scheme that would be called 'retro' rather than 'old fashioned.' There was less furniture than he had, and what there was looked to be completely functional. Simple and sparse. There because it had to be, not because it looked nice or filled a space. There were plenty of spaces, ones that would suit plants or ornaments. A bookcase or side table. No such fixtures existed. Not even pictures or photographs on the walls. A mirror hung above the fire place in the lounge. That was all.

The fireplace was different. Cassidy's house didn't have one. Radiators lined some of the walls, negating the need for one. Some people still had them, for the real flame effect, but he'd yet to live in anywhere with anything other than radiators.

He looked in the mirror. Let it serve its purpose, as everything else seemed liable to when required.

He was Cassidy, but he wasn't. In contrast to the building, which was newer, he appeared older. A good – or bad, judging by his reflection – decade. His hair was darker, but flecked with dirty grey. It had tried to spread to his chin, but the resultant patches of whiskers were not the valiant effort hoped for. His eyes were sad and tired, as if they'd seen more sorrow than a lifetime should hold and were still subjected to more. Hanging from his mouth was a cigarette, lit with a half inch of ash clinging to the tip. Cass had never smoked in his life and didn't believe he ever would, so this version of him, a future version in the past, must be... what? An alternate one? One whose life was a series of opportunities missed? Opportunities refused?

It was Cassidy looking through the eyes. Inhaling the smoke. Feeling the weight of a life misspent. Wasted. Enjoyed, but in all the wrong ways and regretting it. And not preparing to change because, even with regret, there was a terrible enjoyment.

Other Cassidy took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it on the hearth amid the remains of many others, putting it out with the toe of his battered shoe. He gulped a mouthful of the cheap own brand lager he held and slammed the can down on the mantlepiece.

Belch. Wipe nose with fingers and wipe them on his jeans.

Cassidy was horrified at his actions. He didn't do this. Any of it. Yet, he was doing and it all felt natural. He turned away from the mirror and walked into the hall. As he took the bottom step, he belched again, smiling proudly at the volume and taste. Hmmm. Meaty, with a spicy hint of nicotine.

He went up the stairs steadily. With purpose. Each footfall was placed down with deliberate timing and force. He knew the sound it would make and the impact, physical and emotional it would have. And he liked it.

He could hear movement upstairs. The scurry of someone hearing the approaching storm and preparing, futilely, to prepare for it.

He reached the landing and stood outside the bedroom door. A deliberate pause, just to add a little tension. Add some fun. Add some fear.