His head flew off the pillow and quickly rose up about 3 feet, causing the sweat build up to surf off his forehead onto the paper thin sheets at his waist. He wasn't drowning in his dream, yet he leaned forward panting like a dog. He held his head there for a few minutes, still wiping his newly formed sweat drops from his brow and upper lip. He couldn't figure it out. Not any clue, all week.
He looked around his closet sized cave and was blinded from the odor of hours old urine not 3 feet from his feet. The fuzzy blackness from his adjusting eyes caused his tag to be a black scribble across the wall at his front. The cheap plastic band watch hanging over his head told him it was 4 more hours till the lights came on. He put his head in his hands and started his journey back to the land of wonder he had just come from, he hoped. He hoped even more that he wouldn't have the same dream that caused his insomnia in the first place.
He would always rack his brain trying to think of what the dream could have been. Maybe if he knew, he could control it. He kept most things to himself and what his aunt told him in his childhood was no exception. She told him when he was 8 years old and living with her, that he could control his dreams. She would often be the one soothing him when he woke in the middle of the night from nightmares. From that age until, he had no problems until recently.
There were only a few things that could come close to bringing a tear to his eye. Somehow one of those things had made it to the part of his mind that controlled dreams. It had only took the 1st night for him to realize the moisture on his forehead was from sweat, the water residue down the sides of his face were tears. He was tired and even more tired of thinking about it. He fluffed the pillow with his fist and folded it over. The threads from the pillow irritated his freshly shaved face and he flipped it over. The coolness from the other side had become one of many joys he had many years before learned to appreciate. He counted the many women he had slept with as his sheep. Taking a deep breath, he sighed about what must have been wrong with him before. He had pushed many things to the back of his mind, but one thing in particular kept creeping back towards the frontal lobe. Sometimes it fought during the day, but always raced during the full moons. As much as he tried, he couldn't escape the message sewn into the pillow his heavy mind laid on.
On it said the words, "We forgive you". Between the words, lay a picture of the victim of the shooting that caused him to be in the cell.
Every day he would push the thought deeper and deeper away, while every night the victim's family gift to the man who took their father- husband- son- nephew- grandson- and friend away drained away his peace of mind...
"Shut up before I shut you up!" He yells out the bars of his cage to a fellow inmate 3 cells down. The loud, crying sound stopped immediately.
"I'll teach that new guy tomorrow," he thought to himself. He controlled his cell block and everyone knew it. He already started planning his next day of mayhem.
He'd continue to wake up to wet pillows and sheets until the thought he pushes away dampens his eyes while he's awake.
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