I keep thinking that the dream will end. Everytime I blink I hope to wake up. My eyes close, then open and I hope to see the morning light reflect off of the mirror by my bed in my appartment, but instead I keep coming back to the linoleum; the flesh; the patterns, black and red; and that ear peircing fiddling.

I can't wake up. I can't wake up, and I can't bring myself to move. I just stay crouching in the corner, shielding myself from that screeching noise. I can feel the moisture from the wet walls seeping through my shirt. I try to close my eyes but the noise just grinds deeper into my ears. I don't want to look up. I don't. I just want to sit here, stareing at my shoes. I don't want to look up.

Blood spackles to the checkered floor and on my shoes. On my hands. My sleeves. My pants. In my hair. I can hear giggling now. Laughter over the fiddle. More of the blood hits me and I can't help but look up.

A flash of flesh.

That sound! That sound!

At the moment I try to look, i force my head to the ceiling and close my eyes tight. My face grimmaces and my eyes well up in tears. That screaming fiddle just gets louder. Louder!

I force my eyes open and the sound stays. The checkered lenolium stretches around the tight room. It's all wet and damp. That screeching! That laughing! Why won't it stop? The dank room is so small it feels like the walls are closing in. I can't look. Ican't look at that which lies before me. That screeching fiddling like a banshee. That taunting laughing.

I try and look again.

Her smile.

The flesh.

That damn fiddle!

I can't look directly at her. My neck twists around this linoleum cell. I can never look directly at it. My eyes come close to the bath tub, the blood, the flesh, the fiddle.

I couldn't help but scream. I couldn't help but look.

Stroking the fiddle at an extremely fast rate she kept laughing. The soft sounds of her laughter mixed with that loud sound. She lay back in the tub, splashing more blood on me.

This was pain! This was fear! This was-

I felt wind on my face as I sat up quickly from bed. As everything from the dream, the linoleum, the blood, blurred away, so did the memory of the dream. I sat on the side of my bed, hot faced and sweaty, trying to remember the dream.

But I remembered nothing.

I began to get ready for work. Shower. Brush teeth. Deodorant. Socks. Underwear. Shirt. Pants. Tie. Briefcase. Out the door.

I find myself in a state of tranquility, in spite of restless sleep, as I step out of my apartment door and onto the Los Angelas streets. The only thing breaking my calm disposition being a fiddle player in the side alley.