When We Used to Dream

Cold and wet from the rain, out of breath from the long run home, Jack threw open the bathroom door, shut off the light and sat down on the floor. His back against the counter, eyes shut, he concentrated on slowing his breathing — slowing his thoughts. The house was quiet with an eerie silence, one he had not yet fully gotten used to. Reaching up with the only arm that seemed to work — his right — he fumbled on top of the counter until he found the can of energy drink he had left that morning. They were a new addiction, something he couldn’t quite explain but had trouble escaping.

Outside, he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He didn’t stir, he knew that muffler sound all too well. His ears followed a string of noises — footsteps down the front walk, keys fumbling in the front door, cautious steps to the bathroom door. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, there’s wasn’t any point. He knew damn well who it was.

After what seemed like entirely too long of a pause, the door creaked open slowly and a voice poked out from the darkness.

“You used to dream about the future. You used to dream about a lot of things.”