At First Light

Paintings of dragonflies dance on the wall. They fly so beautifully, with a unique grace only dragonflies possess. A ceiling fan spins rapidly over his head; another fan on the night stand spins loudly. It’s so damn hot. There is no sleep tonight, only dreams. The Faceless Lady comes and visits him again. She slips out of focus, never revealing herself. Tonight, he is determined to ask her who she is. He has his suspicions but he knows now he has to ask her. He has to know the truth. 

“It’s hard to accept the difference between who you think you are in your head and how everyone else sees you, isn't it?” she asks him, slipping in and out of frame. 

He’s lying on his bedroom floor, in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. He simply nods. 

“Who am I?” she asks.

Then he falls asleep, which for him is waking up. He pours himself a drink and thinks. The ice melts and the whiskey weakens. It’s so damn hot. He tries to drink until he can’t think—-until he can fall back asleep. The ice melts. 

“Who am I?” 

She steps forward, into the first light of the day, almost showing her face. 

An alarm in the distance sounds and the dream fades. It’s time to get up for work. 

The ice melts. The whisky weakens. It’s the end of the weekend again. Monday morning greets him like a foul ball to the chops at Wrigley. He wakes, longing for when he can go back to sleep. 

“Who am I?”

The ceiling fan spins rapidly above his head. 

“Who am I?”

The whiskey weakens. 

“Who am I?”

The alarm sounds. 

“Who am I?”

The ice melts. 

She steps forward, into the first light of the day, almost showing her face.

CH 8/9/26