What Dreams May Come

I wake up in a film noir bedroom— streetlamp shadows on my ceiling. I dreamt not of being chased but of chasing, of attacking— of taking primitive pleasure from the feel of a face under my fist, the taste of someone else's blood on my knuckles, the satisfying slish of a knife penetrating a plump belly, the recoil of a rifle against my shoulder and the head of a stranger in my sights exploding. I stumble to the bathroom, flip the light, splash water on my face in the dirty mirror, hair estranged, stubble like tombstones, I look guilty as hell and wonder out of which circle that nightmare slouched. (first published by Dark Sire in 2020)