Day 18.

There was something in the back of my mind that was keeping me from falling into a deeper level of sleep. I was stuck in that quasi awake asleep stage where you think you’re conscious and you know what is going on around you until you sort of jerk and realize that you just woke up.
And since my reality and dream world had sort of merged, I couldn’t really tell which was which. I remember that in one of them I had a horrible weight on my mind. When you have something really foreboding haunting you, like a looming deadline, and though its psychological it crosses the gap between the physical and the metaphysical and you think you can actually feel it.
I was sitting up in my bed, and I was staying very still so I could try to figure out whether I was dreaming or not. I looked around. Everything seemed normal. I looked at the window, which opened out into the expanse of the front yard, the beginnings of the woods to the left, the fields straight ahead. The sky was that orangish colour that it sometimes becomes at night, when you feel it can’t possibly be this bright outside.
I just kept staring out that window. I got out of bed, up to the window. I leaned close; I could feel the slightly chill radiating from it. I breathed on it, white blurred the glass, lingered, slowly faded away. I used to make drawings in the white. It was gone now.
The glass was so clear.
The glass...
The glass?
My window had been broken. There was no glass in it yet. It was boarded up. But I was staring through the glass, I reached up to touch it. When I did, that heavy sense I had felt in my dream or reality flattened me to the ground with its sudden force. The room became darker than it had been before, the heaviness disappeared, I sat up, my arm was shaking. I couldn’t stop it. The window was boarded up. There was no orange sky, no expanse of country side, no light from anywhere.
I just sat there for the longest time, knowing I was finally in reality. Nothing seemed amiss. But something had happened. Something more than just a dream. I wanted to get out of this room. I needed to be somewhere else.
I had a sudden urge to retreat back to my younger years, when I would crawl into bed with my parents, right in the middle. Mom would kiss my forehead and tell me it would be okay, pet my ear for a few minutes until she would fall back to sleep. Dad would scoot to the edge of the bed so we would all fit.
I hadn’t done that since I was seven. There was such a comfort, after making the dash from my room to theirs and not being devoured my monsters, to know I was safe, and that nothing could possibly harm me because I was with my parents. My parents who could protect me from anything.
Sometimes growing up sucks.
After a while, I got to my feet, put on some clothes, headed downstairs. Something didn’t feel right. I was anxious. Anxious like I’d been a week ago. When a weight pressed down on my shoulders.
Kon had said it wouldn’t come back here. He never said what it was. He never said why. No one ever said anything.
My heart began to beat faster. I could only manage to take shallow breaths as I paced the living room, then towards the kitchen.
I thought for a second my dad was up, because I heard the hiss of the tea kettle. Our tea kettle refused to whistle and had decided to give a hiss like its friend the radiator. The lights weren’t on. I stepped onto the cold lynoleum of the kitchen floor. No one was there. The tea kettle sat on our gas stovetop. The burner coils were black and cold. The kettle was hissing, a steady stream of steam racing from its small opening. I stayed by the fridge which was right next to the doorway, staring at that kettle. It just kept hissing without explanation. It started to shake. A little at first, then a steady rattle, as if something was furiously boiling inside. Nothing else seemed out of place.
Just the angry little kettle.
After several minutes of not moving, I slowly approached the stove. My heart, stomach, and pretty much every other internal organ was lodged firmly in my throat. Heat was radiating from the kettle. I reached towards it to grab the insulated handle. The instant my hand touched the rubber handle, a searing pain erupted on my skin where I’d touched it. I pulled back with a curse. Immediately after I’d touched it, the kettle stopped shaking, stopped steaming. But it kept on hissing.
I cradled my stinging hand as I flipped the light switch, which was just behind the fridge. I looked at my palm. It was red.
I tried to ignore the steady ssssssssssssssssssss of the kettle as I turned on a light stream of cold water from the faucet. I put my hand underneath it, a little relief.