The Dead Zone
Date: Sunday, April 20, 2025
Mood: Panicked
Music: Dreams by The Cranberries
Dear Richard,
I woke up gasping this morning. Levi shifted in his sleep, mumbling something, and threw an arm over my chest. His weight felt grounding, but my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I had the dream again.
It’s always the same. I’m in a phone booth—which is ridiculous, because those don't exist anymore—on a dark street corner. It’s raining. I have a handful of quarters. I need to call you. It is a matter of life and death. I don't know why it’s life and death, but the panic in the dream is absolute.
I know the number. 513-555-0198. (I still know it by heart. I haven't dialed it in fifteen years, but my fingers remember the pattern on the keypad).
I put the quarter in. I start to dial.
But my fingers won't work.
They turn into rubber. They slide off the buttons. I press the 5, but the 8 lights up. I try again, but the keypad starts to melt, the numbers rearranging themselves into hieroglyphics.
I try to use Siri. I scream at the phone, "Call Richard!" But the phone just laughs at me in a mechanical voice.
Then, through the glass of the booth, I see you. You’re walking away from me, down the street, under a streetlamp. You’re wearing that navy hoodie. You’re walking with that specific stride—hands in pockets, head down.
I pound on the glass. I scream your name. Richard! Richard! Wait!
But the glass is soundproof. You keep walking. You turn the corner, and you’re gone.
I wake up sweating. The feeling of helplessness is so heavy I can’t move.
It’s the lack of agency, isn't it? That’s what my subconscious is chewing on. In the dream, I am paralyzed. I can't reach you. The technology fails. The glass holds.
It’s a metaphor that’s a little too on-the-nose for my taste.
I lay there this morning, watching the sun come up over the Hollywood Hills, trying to slow my breathing. Levi woke up a few minutes later. He kissed my shoulder.
"Bad dream?" he asked, sleep-drunk and soft.
"Yeah," I whispered. "Just a stress dream. Work stuff."
I lied to him before I even had coffee.
I wonder if you ever dream about me. Or am I just a static character in your subconscious? Do you ever reach for the phone in your sleep, only to find it melting in your hands?
I hope you sleep soundly, Richard. I hope your nights are quiet.
Love always,
Taylor