I had a dream last night…I don’t normally dream. I normally just lay in bed sleeping, or not sleeping. Sometimes it comes easy, and sometimes I just lay there, staring at my eyelids, as I think about all the things that I’ve done. All the people I’ve killed…all the people I’ve broken, or scared. It’s hard to sleep with all that no your plate, but I do always manage to drift off at some point in the night. Waking up in the morning, feeling groggy and disoriented, most of the time. But that’s what coffee and mountain dew is for. That’s also what Lucky Charms is for…what, a killed can’t have a sweet teeth?

But I don’t dream…I never dream. I dreamed when I was a little girl, and that’s about it. Though…y’know what? I’m glad that I don’t dream, that I’m not haunted by these thoughts, even in my sleep. I can only imagine that my dreams would probably be nightmares, and not the kind of nightmares that woke children at night. The kind of nightmares that made grown men cry, and shake in fear of the nasties that lurked waiting to snatch them up, at any given moment.

Though I had one last night…and it’s been bothering me ever since I woke up this morning. Unlike the dreams I had as a child, this dream was fairly easy to remember. It didn’t fade in and fade out, I remembered it almost perfectly. Or, at least I thought I did.

I’ll tell you, I doubt you to understand what it means, or why it bothers me as much as it does. Considering the things that I’ve done, nothing can bother me.

It started off as normal as any day would in the dream, and for a few moments I just sat in my house, watching the television. Though the screen was showing no movie, just a buzzing hiss of static, and the gray and black scraggle that came along with it.

For whatever reason I went outside, not dressed in my work clothes…but my day clothes, the clothes I would never want my victims to see.

There was this and that, a normal day if anything. Then I came across him…the man without a face. And for whatever reason there was I followed him, I would never do something like that…follow a faceless man. Or really follow any man; I was wary of trusting other people.

Then…I can’t even figure out where to start explaining the next part. This man seemed to have my swords, and…he gives it to me. And of course, it feels as normal in my hand, as a pen or pencil feels in the hand of a writer. Or a camera in a photographer’s hand…this is definitely one of my own swords.

He leads me to the mall, the place where I go to be normal. And he attacks a person, and…he makes me help. I don’t like that feeling at all, having to kill somebody, and having nothing to say about it. I never kill people if it’s an order. It’s always strictly a choice, a choice between yes and no…not exactly. I put a lot of thought into my decisions; it’s much more complicated than yes, or no.

We get away…I feel like I’m going to throw up, and blood and killing, things like that never make me feel this way. Yet I feel sick, and like anything’s going to set me off. For the next couple of hours…I keep finding the dead man’s blood, everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Like ghosts from my past, haunting me, telling me what I have done is wrong. These feelings of regret, shame and guilt…I want to banish them to the place that I’ve banished all of my other human emotions.

Then…I just woke up. I didn’t want to know what happened next, I just wanted to get out of there, get out of there as fast as I could.

That person in the dream…who were they? And why am I dreaming about them. Something’s wrong, and I’m going to figure out what it is.