Foreboding, my stomach is in knots. I can't rid myself of this nervous feeling. I'm home, alone. The house is dark and it may or may not be raining outside. It's inarguably windy. I sit down at the computer, and I'm trying to write something, a blog post, a short story, who knows? I struggle to type the few choices phrases that float through my head.
"It's a good night for a killing."I try to write but my efforts are continually interrupted by the howling wind and my need to check door locks, and windows. To peer into the bushes. My heart won't stop racing. I hear faint music and I realize my cell phone is beside me, ringing. It rings, but is not lit up. picking it up, I answer:
"Suicide is the last great performance art"
"Hi," a masculine voice answers. The voice on the other end is smooth and calming, but I am anything but calm.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm a slave."
"I'm a slave, that's all."
At this point I force myself awake. I'm still tense and I have a sense of unreality, as I am hearing breathing which I think is my own, except that the sound doesn't match my rhythm. A slight movement and I realize that one of my daughters has climbed into my bed. Again.
Not sure what is going on my subconcious. Last night it was tornadoes. We were caught up in a tornado that threw our car a few hundred feet, then roared overhead as we (me, my girls, my friend and her daughter and my parents) hid in an old pre-school building.
Something is up with my sleep patterns. It's going to be a long night.