Faceless Killers

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He has forgotten something, he knows that for sure when he wakes up. Something he dreamed during the night. Something he ought to remember.

He tries to remember. But sleep is like a black hole. A well that reveals nothing of its contents.

At least I didn’t dream about the bulls, he thinks. Then I would have been all sweaty, as if I had suffered through a fever during the night. This time the bulls left me in peace.

He lies still in the darkness and listens. His wife’s breathing at his side is so faint that he can hardly hear it.

One of these mornings she’ll be lying dead beside me and I won’t even notice, he thinks. Or maybe it’ll be me. One of us will die before the other. Daybreak will reveal that one of us has been left all alone.

He looks at the clock on the table next to the bed. The hands glow and point at quarter to five.

Why did I wake up? he thinks. I usually sleep till five thirty. I’ve done that for over forty years. Why am I waking up now?

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