the nightmare

Usually I wake up in time. You know the time... when you wake up seconds before it happens. But not tonight. I am awake now, really awake, drenched in sweat, one of his old t-shirts I sleep in clinging to my damp skin. The clock bears 5:40 in that echo of electric green. I can make out basic shapes in the room. A pile of dirty laundry overflowing from the basket. The fish tank, long forgotten but somehow still inhabited with three tiny fish that seem to thrive in the self-sustaining ecosystem I created for them, or more acurately, that they created for themselves. The house is still but not silent. From the bedroom I can barely make out the whirr of the cat fountain that I never remember to fill and that the cat refuses to drink out of anyway. Outside the wind nudges the house, teasing it to lean. I pull the blankets closer around me and flip myself over to the other side of the bed. Reach my arm out to feel for the cat. He's there curled in his bed beside my bed. I'm not alone. I curse the clock. This always seems to happen around 5:40. Too early to get up and too late to salvage a good sleep. I toss and turn finally giving in and getting up to pee. The inky dark of the lowest part of the night seeps into the house, into my bones. I get nervous and rush back to the safety of the warm blankets. Curled under the covers I remember my nightmare. He's gone. And I am here. I stare desperately at the clock... 5:42. The minutes slowing as my life seems to disappear out from beneath me. I don't want to remember anymore.