Writing The Next Line Blogfest

3:00 am. Those numbers glowed green, staring at me, letting me know I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't. If I did, who knows what injury I would wake up with. Every night a dream would consume me, and when I woke, something on my body was cut, bruised, or almost broken.

I started at the ceiling. The fan squeaked and wobbled, trying to produce air flow. It wasn't succeeding. I turned over, hugging my pillow. What's happening? Maybe I should see someone, but who? A doctor? Padded room for sure. Is there such a thing as a dream specialist?

A branch scratched the window. I turned over again. 5:00 am. Where did the last two hours go? Adrenaline pumped through my veins, accelerating my heart. My T-shirt was damp and clinging to my back. What happened? Did I dream, again?

Bang. Bang. Bang. I jumped up. Someone was at my door.

"Who's there?" I called.

No answer.

I threw my covers aside and threw the door open. No one was there.

Of course not. I climbed back into bed.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll stop.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I covered my head with my pillow.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Leave me alone!” I threw my pillow at the door.

The door opened but still no one was there.

Maybe a glass of warm milk would help me sleep. I walked downstairs into the kitchen and paused. The refrigerator door was already open, the milk on the counter. I picked up a glass full of milk and drank. The milk was not too cold and had no hot spots. It was perfect. I returned the carton into the fridge and closed the door.

“Hello, Megan.”

I jumped and dropped the glass. It broken into a million pieces, its shard flying everywhere.

“Greg, what are you doing here?”

“You need to go to sleep, Megan.”

I trembled all over. “You can’t be here. I’m seeing things.” I closed my eyes and began to sing a song. After I screwed up the second verse, I opened my eyes, hoping he was gone.

He was still there.

“You’re dead, Greg, you died two weeks ago. A teenage driver hit your car.”

Greg tilted his head to the side. “I do remember a car crash.” He stepped forward, toward me.

I backed up until I bumped into the wall.

Greg still approached, his bare feet stepping on the broken shards of glass. He didn’t react to the pain, didn’t leave blood on the floor.

I screamed and ran past him, up the stairs, to my bedroom. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Climbed into bed.

Everything would be better in the morning. I couldn’t wait for the sun to come up.

“You need to go to sleep, Megan.”

I screamed again. The door was still shut, still locked, but Greg had somehow gotten into my room. He advanced and grabbed my pillow from the floor. He forced me to lie down on my bed and pressed the pillow to my face.

Just before my vision turned black, I could see flashing lights and heard tires screeching. Only then did I remember that I was the teenage driver that had hit and killed my brother.