The drip-drops from the faucet are steady like the ticktocks of a second-hand.

White porcelain, stained pink beneath flickering flourescents; humming from a bad bulb accompanies a steady rhythm of the drops dripping into the tub.

He is a shadow, cold among rising steam. She can almost see him, but he is blurred beneath her heavy eyelids. She tries speaking, but words are as slippery as her grasp on life in this moment.

Drowsiness fades away as he takes her hand. She opens her eyes, pleased to find the stories untrue.

There is no scythe, and her journey isn’t grim.

"Did you catch anything today?"

"The usual stuff. My companion thought of quitting his day job to open a bar with some friends. I told him it was a stupid idea."

"The bar, again? He’s almost 40 already, isn’t he?"

"Yup. It comes and goes. I don’t mind, really. He has talked himself out of it so many times. I barely need to make an effort for him to give up now."

"True. Hey, let me tell you about mine. Seven-year-old girl, remember? Today, she said her dream was to become president. Can you believe it? I’m trying to convince her it’s a man’s job. She’s a tough one, but I think I might be making progress."

The two dreamtrollers’ chatter was interrupted by the arrival of a third one. It emerged from beneath the clouds looking with the physical complexion of a starving man, looking drained after another long journey. On the end of his fishing rod, no dreams could be seen. The others acknowledged its presence but remained in silence. There was no need to ask any questions. They all knew he had come from another unsuccessful visit to its companion, a middle-aged man named Allan.

Every single person on Earth had a dreamtroller assigned to them at birth. It had been that way since well before the invention of written language.

Even the first Homo sapiens, with their limited intellect and scarce knowledge of the world, were equipped with the ability to desire. On the day the very first man had the very first dream, his dreamtroller was there, hovering over his head, trolling the waters of his thoughts to catch it. The man heard a sobering voice, seemingly coming from inside his own head, calmly convincing him that pursuing his dream would be futile. Then the dreamtroller rose again to the sky, taking with it the first of billions of human dreams which would never be fulfilled.

All humans heard stories about dreamtrollers in their childhood, but they were still considered to be legends. It would be pointless to attempt to prove otherwise. They lacked anything that could be perceived as a body by human senses, and no instrument could detect their presence.

The only way a dreamtroller would manifest itself was through a very subtle form of speech. Whenever a dreamtroller spoke, its companion received the message in his mind, bearing the sound of his own voice.

Their disguise was also an irresistible persuasion strategy. How can you argue against someone if their thoughts are indistinguishable from your own?

As a result, all humans had developed the habit of dreaming about the future, then giving up on most of their dreams. Everyone, except for Allan.

He was a child when he first heard of dreamtrollers. Like vampires and werewolves, they were the kind of creature that would flash into children’s memories at night and make them lose sleep for a couple of hours, but their terrifying nature didn’t stop them from being forgotten. No one actually believed in them after a certain age.

Unlike all his friends, however, Allan never outgrew his fear of dreamtrollers. He was terrified of the idea of something invading his mind to steal his dreams. He also knew that trying to ignore the dreamtroller’s words would also be fruitless. From a very early age, therefore, Allan decided to live a life without dreams.

While others fantasised about all they wanted to achieve in life, making themselves an open target to the dreamtrollers, Allan conditioned himself to suppress even his deepest desires before his mind could manifest them. And every night, when his dreamtroller came to collect its toll, it would always find Allan’s mind empty.

Allan never dreamt of becoming a firefighter, a football player or an astronaut when he grew up. In fact, he didn’t even dream of growing up at all: becoming a teenager, an adult and then an old man was just a natural development to which he attached no particular desire.

Everything that happened in his life was either due to chance or to the dreams of others. He went to church every Sunday on his mother’s suggestion. His father, who was an accountant, mentioned that Allan should follow his footsteps after noticing his talent for numbers. Having no other ideas in mind, Allan accepted the suggestion and spent forty years on a cubicle job at the first company who made him a job offer. Despite never asking for a raise or a promotion, he slowly advanced to a comfortable position in which he served the company’s interests well without interfering in no one else’s ambitions. At home, he would watch whatever was on television, order food from takeaway restaurants that left menus on his front door and go to bed at 10 PM, at the suggestion of a doctor. He never got married, of course, but his solitude didn't bother him. He knew the dream of finding love was the most dangerous of all desires.

Before Allan, it was assumed that dreaming was an essential part of life — and, therefore, no dreamtroller would ever starve. Every one of them would thrive for as long as its companion lived, then blissfully vanish into the clouds with a smile, having lived a fulfilling life. Allan’s dreamtroller was the first to experience frustration and despair: two feelings which were previously only known to humans.

As time passed and others in its generation began to vanish, Adam’s dreamtroller became acquainted with another deeply human emotion: fear. It dreaded the possibility of going through its entire existence without ever getting to know the rich, delicate taste of an unfulfilled dream. It was with bitter resignation that the dreamtroller kept visiting Allan every night, always returning to the skies as empty as when it left.

The dreamtroller had long lost all its hopes when, on a night which could be their last, the hesitating vibration of a human dream began to shake at the end of its fishing rod.

Allan was lying in a hospital bed, alone, his withering figure bearing an odd resemblance to that of his starving dreamtroller. He didn’t think of the family he never had, the women he never loved, the difference he could have made. A life of suppressed dreams had erased every trace of those feelings off his mind. Yet there remained one last nagging wish, which had been hatching in the depths of mind for many years and only now manifested itself in words. Unable to contain the thought any longer, Allan mentally uttered his first desire.

"I just want to die."

Just as Allan finished his sentence, he felt a dark, ancient presence in the room. A smile began to form on his face, but the rest of his body shrieked when a reply echoed in his mind, carrying the terrifying familiarity of his own voice.

"Not yet."

Have you ever been walking up a set of stairs surrounded by such darkness that it was unclear whether your eyes were even open? Your muscle memory takes you on that short trek without much difficulty but there is a moment when you wonder which step will be the last. The uncertainty of that last step is overwhelmingly beautiful. Momentary joy or terror can arise from such a moment; the way it is perceived is purely up to the climber.

An infinitesimal shaft of light shines through a narrow slat in the wall, like the sunlight is afraid to touch the abysmal box which is my room. I’m grateful for its presence though, since the single bulb overhead isn’t enough to chase away the deep shadows, with its incessant filament buzz as my only music.

In a few hours none of these realities will matter. Today is my day of reckoning. The muscular guard—Damien, with the jagged scar on one cheek—reminded me of this fact when he brought me lunch. As if I could have forgotten.

The meal is a pasty, grey lump which I push around the plate with a dirty finger, watching the grease shimmer in the half-light.

I turn the plate, studying it. It could be art. It could be beautiful. The very least, it’s a way to pass the time.

I grab a handful of the nameless paste and smear it on the wall near my bed. I press my face close to the cement wall to hear the sticky wet noise of my fingers sliding in the goo. The sound is comforting; something else to listen to other than the screams and bangs from the neighbouring cells.

With my eyes closed, and the scent of dirty, damp concrete strong in my nose, it almost smells earthy. Reminiscent of my life before.

“Farmer?”

My eyes flutter open. I hobble over to my toilet-sink combo on the opposite wall and strain to hear the disembodied voice floating up from the drain.

“Farmer, you there?”

I grab my toothbrush and tap twice on the drain. Yes.

“Jeryl’s coming your way, man. Don’t know what he wants but he’s been asking questions.”

I squeeze the sides of the sink as my stomach pitches. It must have something to do with what day it is.

“Hey,” my friend’s voice takes on a new tone, softer. “Remember the day you were brought here, you vowed never to speak until you saw your daughter again?”

I hover over the sink nodding, even though I know he can’t see me.

“I hope you get that chance. To see her again.”

My chest constricts. When I don’t respond he taps.

Tap tap. Pause. Tap.

Finally, I tap back.

The sound of jingling keys just outside my cell door makes me shake, and I struggle to control the sudden urge to urinate. I drop my toothbrush in the sink and slump to the floor beside the toilet, hugging my knees to my chest, telling myself not to look at the door. An open door offers hope, and I once heard hope deferred makes the heart sick. I’ve had a sick heart for nineteen long years.

It’s my day of reckoning. I remind myself.

The guard who enters is Jeryl. I know him by his smell. The starch on his uniform and the personal hygiene products he uses. Without looking up, I can picture the grooves in his shiny black hair made by the teeth of his comb.

The steel door slams behind him. I jump and urinate a little. My cheeks heat and I press my shaking hands to my face.

“What are you in here for again?” His voice is soft, almost feminine, a tone he reserves for me. I brave a glance at him as he taps his pen on the clipboard he brought. “Oh yeah, it says here you killed your wife.”

I suppress a sigh. The guards say this every time they see me. Like reminding me will make me repentant. It never works.

Instead, I picture my daughter—my Lillith—the last time I saw her. Her impish nose with its pale dusting of freckles like sugar on a gum drop. Her white-blond ringlets that framed her exquisite face as she got older. And those eyes. Smoked onyx with flecks of midnight blue, if you looked long enough to see them, which no one could. Look long enough, I mean. Except me.

I rock a little. Back and forth. Back and forth. Watching Jeryl with furtive eyes. Why is he here now? His easy tone always makes me nervous, but because of today’s promise it unsettles me even more. I have to piss so bad I can taste it, but I refuse to make that known.

Jeryl sniffs. “You piss yourself, Franklin?” He toes me with his boot, but not unkindly. I wish for the thousandth time he would treat me like the other inmates. I long to be kicked in the stomach, my fingers broken beneath a heavy boot—anything that will tell me I’m not a freak. That I’m nothing to be feared.

“Strip, then I’ll take your clothes to the laundry. Can’t meet your Maker smelling like a piss-pot, can you?”

Using the toilet to hoist myself up, I strip naked. Jeryl politely turns his face away, pretending to scribble on his clipboard, even though we both know there’s no longer any reason to take notes. I roll my soiled, putrid clothing into a ragged ball and hold it out to him. Jeryl points his pen at the floor.

“Kick them to me. I ain’t touching that.”

A whisper of hope climbs up my spine and lodges somewhere in my ribcage behind my heart. Maybe on my last day I will finally be treated like the others. Maybe today this baby-faced guard will swear at me, kick my naked body until I taste blood and call me names. Scum of the earth. Wife-killer. Bewitched. Freak.

It’s what I am after all.

But instead he kills me slowly, not with fear masquerading as kindness like the other guards, but with gentleness.

Keeping his back to my nakedness, he gives me a two-fingered salute and opens the door.

New air rushes in to replace the stale stink in my cell. Jeryl holds the door open longer than necessary and I breathe deep; tasting the sharp odours of sweat, stale food and something else. Something familiar that I can’t quite place. My mouth waters. I wipe the drool before Jeryl sees it.

“I’ll come by at supper time, Mr. Farmer. With your final meal.”

I nod, knowing the last thing I’ll ever taste will be a greasy, meatless paste. With my arms limp, my fingers twitching, I watch him gently push my balled-up clothing into the corridor. When his clipboard bangs against the door frame I jump and raise my eyes. His ruckus is unusual. I sense he’s nervous.

My fingers twitch faster.

“I took the liberty and ordered something special for your last meal, Sir. If that’s okay.”

There’s a smile in Jeryl’s voice that makes me wince. I stare at the back of his neck. I haven’t been Sir for years.

“Steak.”

Saliva fills my mouth. My knees buckle. I grip the sink to remain upright.

That’s the familiar smell in the corridor.

Tears leak from my eyes and I hang my head.

Once I was a cattle farmer.

Before.

Before Lillith was taken from me. Before my wife’s death.

I was a respectable man once. And this boy-guard with the soft voice is reminding me who I used to be.

He taps the clipboard hanging at his thigh. Tap tap. Pause. Tap. His fingers are long, slender. Lady fingers. I used to love those cookies. I almost smile.

He keeps tapping. Tap tap. Pause. Tap. The toe of his black boot is wedged in the door to keep it propped open. My fingers keep twitching. I sway as a memory rises, so strong I can almost smell the ozone from the storm that night. My last night before being dragged here.

I remember the way my wife’s pale hair had looked. Frizzed. It always did before it rained. The air had turned sharp and carried the scent of apples; a sure sign of an impending storm. The sky swirled with ominous shades of black and I knew Lillith would be frightened.

Jeryl clears his throat and I’m hurtled back to the present. Then I do the unthinkable. I raise my eyes to his. And for the first time he looks back at me.

My lungs collapse, at the same time my heart leaps.

Those eyes.

I shuffle back. Stumble, and catch my foot on the toilet’s base. Pain ratchets up my achilles tendon and Jeryl’s face softens into genuine concern. The transformation is nearly my undoing. I clutch the sink basin. I can feel my bowels loosen.

Past and present collide. As Jeryl stands at the door, I see in my mind my wife running out of our one bedroom farmhouse to take down the clothes drying on the clothesline before the rain comes. That’s when our daughter appears behind her. 

I wave my arms. No! Hide! Get away! 

Lillith’s onyx eyes are wide. Her face is as pale as cow’s milk. Thunder crashes and raises the hairs on my arms. In silence, Lillith runs to me, arms out. Her little bow mouth forms a perfect circle of shock. I pick her up and she presses her wet face into my neck, wrapping her arms and legs around me. Her little body is taut with fear of the storm.

I hear footsteps outside my cell and jerk back. Jeryl’s jaw tightens. The memory fades and what I think I saw in him is gone.

“Jeryl! You’re needed in cellblock one.” The sound of Damien’s voice in the corridor causes my vague glimpse at an epiphany to stutter then stall.

Tap tap. Pause. Tap. Jeryl’s fingers continue their rhythm on his clipboard. When the door finally closes I collapse onto the toilet and let my bowels stream.

#

The steak comes on a pretty, white plate with scalloped edges. I even get a paper napkin which I tuck into the collar of my freshly washed shirt. Before I eat, I poke my tongue into the centre of the meat. The aroma of beef wafts up; another tendril that pulls me back into my nightmarish memory.

I’m holding Lillith when my wife turns to say something to me. She screams and drops the laundry basket when she sees our daughter alive and well. For three years I’d deceived my wife and hid our daughter from her.

“You! You let her live?” She rushes at me, finger pointing. Then tries to pry Lillith from my arms.

“Nan, please. She’s only a child. She can’t help what she is. Look, she’s grown so big. So beautiful, like you.”

“She’s nothing like me! She’s a freak! Cursed!” Nan scratches my arms in an attempt to make me drop Lillith.

My little girl sobs into my neck until the next crack of thunder startles her and she lifts her head. When she sees the blood running from my arms and her mother’s long nails gouging my flesh she shouts, “NO!” Those smoky, onyx eyes flash. 

Goosebumps dimple my arms. My fingers twitch. The pungent scent of ozone hangs heavy in the air.

“It’s okay, Lil. Daddy’s fine. Look, it’s just a little scratch.”

My heart leaps against my ribs. I don’t want to watch as the rest of the memory unfolds. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the horror of that evening from my mind. Oh, if only little Lil had waited for me to come comfort her during that storm.

The steak settles like wet cement in my stomach.

“Farmer?” My friend’s voice rings through the pipes again. I set the plate on my mattress and walk to the sink to tap out my response, but my door opens.

My heart twists. It’s time.

“Franklin Farmer?” Jeryl pokes his head in, his eyebrows raised as though he’s seeing me for the first time. He steps into the room and lets the door bang shut. His strides are purposeful. “What are you in here for again?” 

Our eyes meet. 

My fingers twitch and the sweet smell of apples fills the room, followed by the heavy crush of ozone.

“Killed my wife.” My voice is rusty with disuse.

Jeryl works his mouth like he wants to say something. Those onyx eyes remain fastened on mine. The single bulb flickers.

I wait.

He waits.

The hairs on my arms lift.

“No,” Jeryl says, “you didn’t kill her. I did.”

Jeryl’s face blurs as my eyes fill. I reach a trembling hand to him and he takes it in both of his.

I shake my head. “I’m bewitched. Cursed with thunder.” My body is tight as the twitching races up my fingers to my arms. I shake with the effort to contain the pulses. Tears stream down my face.

“It’s not a curse, Dad. It’s a gift. That’s what you used to tell me isn’t it? That I’m blessed with the eyes of lightning.” Jeryl—Lillith— says and she presses her face into my chest. I put my arms around her and we sway in a father-daughter dance.

I’m ready now, and I can tell she knows it. I put my nose in her hair that’s been dyed black and cut short, and I breathe her in. Beneath the fabric starch and hair gel I smell her familiar scent of crisp autumn leaves interlaced with the fragrance of summer rain.

The air swirls with the intensity of our reunion, picking up dust and dirt and flinging it in our eyes. But I don’t care. I hang on tight and wait for the moment my body ignites in the fury of my own storm. It’s my day of my reckoning. But before Damien comes for me, I will go out of this world in flames, just like my wife.

“I’m coming with you,” Lillith says into my shirt. I’m thankful its clean. I never dreamed I’d be meeting my Maker wearing clean clothes and holding my little girl.

Her arms tighten around me and I don’t argue. I know too well the agony of missing your loved ones. It’s an eternal prison. A tiny box the sunlight can’t penetrate, and your only company is a voice in the drain.

Today, I finally let my heartache go. I wait for the moment when heaven kisses earth and I’m freed from the chains of mortality. The air is infused with the lingering scent of apples as thunder and lightning dance.

The city behind me is on fire, but it's not my fault.

...

Okay fine, it is.

But it was on accident.

...

Okay fine, it wasn't. 

God and I had been on one date before.

It was an eye-opening experience in which I learned that God moves through all objects of nature. Even the leaves that rustle in the trees with the wind are a part of God's hand.

I used to look at nature and see God. 

That was before my husband passed away.

He passed a few years ago and after that, I shied away from society. 

I went out only when it was absolute necessity as I could not bear to see couples together for I had lost my one partner in this life.

I could not even find peace in nature.

I resented God for taking him away for me...

It was about a month ago that I decided to attend a marriage conference that was intended for couples.

I felt it was something I had to do if anything was ever going to change in my life. 

I braved myself to be alone in a room full of pairs.

That night God and I had our second date in my hotel room.

After room service had delivered my meal, I slept for a while on the couch.

I awoke suddenly and gazed out of my window just to catch the last of a magnificently

beautiful sunset. Some stars and the moon were beginning to shine in the still blue and pink sky and the moon was reflected in the totally calm, blue and pink river.

I believe God was sending me a message to remind me that he loved me. 

I resolved that the moon's reflection in the water was a part of His signature.

I realized that God had never disappeared all those years. 

He was simply waiting for me to find him again.

It is often in our suffering that God awakens a strong desire in us for nothing more than Himself. 

I plan on attending more dates with God.