Blue and Maker
Author: J.B. Cole

Chapter 3
[Fringe]

[Fringe]

 

      I went into my room. Of course, it was clean. A week after I moved here I had already unpacked everything. I didn't have much to unpack, but it was enough. My bed was surprisingly new. It had a chrome-paint finish. The mattress was oddly welcoming. It wasn't as if I was staying in an unfamiliar bed. This one was mine and as comforting as mine should be. I was too tired to change so I just flattened myself across the bed and closed my eyes. Sleep came quickly.

      There's that moment that comes with sleep where your thoughts manifest themselves into dreams. You lay on the fringe between the real and dream worlds. I was only there for a moment. I drifted off to my world of dreams in what seemed like a hurry.

      Growing up, I had noticed that my dreams were always obscure and vague no matter how frightening or exciting they were. The rest of my family was just the opposite. In my dreams I can't read or write, or on most occasions even speak. I do, however; have my own thought process. My conscious thoughts are projected to my dream self. It seems to give me at least some control of the direction that my dream is heading towards. I love dreaming. Our personal inhibitions disappear and we're free to live in ways we would never even consider. We're free to explore the depths and immensity of our imaginations.

      I woke without realizing it. I found myself staring at the ceiling for several minutes, my thoughts still in a haze. I didn't have to be to work until 8:00 AM. My alarm clock read 5:42 AM. I still had time for sleep but didn't want to have it. I couldn't find a reason. I got up. As winter pressed closer the sun started to rise later. The darkness outside was offsetting. I made myself a single cup of coffee and sat down in a wicker-seated chair in my new kitchen. The weight of my eyelids was bothersome. My coffee helped to clear that up. I realized that I was still wearing the same clothes as I wore yesterday. I set my coffee down to shower and change. My coffee was cold when I got back to it. I poured it down the drain of the sink. Somewhat of a waste.

      There is at least one moment of every day of my life that brings me back to my wife. That rhymes doesn't it? The memories of her consume my life and its every aspect. While I no longer mourn her, I still seek her comfort. The familiar scent of coffee reminded me of the cafe where he had first met. Now that I think about it, that one visit to the cafe was my only trip there...ever. When I allow my thoughts to sift in my brain I realize something upsetting. I lied to Elizabeth the very first time I met her. I lied to her to gain her trust. How much of a difference is that from a criminal? Even though my life wasn't to a horrible extent, what if it had been? I told her I knew of a small cafe, I had no idea where that coffee place was, I just knew that there was one. What if I wasn't who I said I was that day? What if Elizabeth had talked to someone completely different? What if that someone planned on hurting Elizabeth because she felt she could trust him? What makes me so special when it comes to her fate? Why is it that no matter how we live our lives there is always something keeping us in check? These questions burn my mind and saturate it with doubt and perhaps even fear. I don't understand the point of our nature as people; why we do what we do. Even if I did, would it change anything? Would I choose another path to live by? Some would say yes. When I put myself in that position I can't bring myself to find an answer that I'm satisfied with. Does knowing the truth always make everything okay? My face buried in my hands, sitting in the wicker-seated chair, I knew the answer to that question. I also knew that acknowledging that answer wouldn't bring any comfort.

      With a lone sigh I sat up once again. This time to leave. My wristwatch read 6:45 AM. The commute to Howard & Greene was nearly forty-five minutes long. I unlatched the chain lock on my apartment door and walked down the dismal, blank hallway to the vestibules. My reserved parking space was set in the far end of the lot. I finally reached my prized car. The car I bought the day before the bank robbery. A '68 Mustang Fastback with a flat-black paint job. The car stuck out but I couldn't help but to show it off. I sat down in my car and started the engine. I set my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes. In only moments I fell asleep.

 

 

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