The killer was just starting to make a name for himself. He had broken into the home of a friend and murdered him. 7 days later, another friend. The police weren't taking it seriously because they didn't have enough evidence to support the theory that the killings were related.
As we stood outside under the funeral parlor awning, saying sad goodbyes, a homeless man carrying some papers approached us. He handed us the bundle, each of them containing only two words: you're next. Gripped by grief and outraged by the message and messenger, both, Phil grabbed the man by his collars, his voice threatening and trampling the air as he shouted "who the fuck gave these to you? Who put you up to this?!" The old homeless man, trembling with fear and regret, stammered and began pleading and whimpering while he told us a man had given him $10 and some cigarettes to hand us the notes. I told Phil to let him go, that he didn't know anything. The man stumbled off down a side-street, clutching his cigarettes and looking back timidly over his shoulder; the rain forced us into cabs.
Later that evening, I received an urgent call from Sarah, a friend who had been with us earlier when we were presented with the letters. She was upset and crying, repeating that she was scared and I should come quick. I arrived at her house to the sight of spinning sirens and parked police cars. She was outside with friends, speaking to the cops. As I approached, Phil intercepted me and said "come with me," leading me inside. Sarah's window was smashed, glass hung in the frame like crystal guillotines waiting to fall, small shards of glass scattered across the floor like burst marbles. He held up a piece of paper, the sight of which, made my stomach turn. It was a photo taken of all of us from earlier in the day, when we were handed the message outside the funeral home.
This second message, had been delivered by a brick, through a window.
We all sat together after the officers left, trying to console one another in fits and starts. All of us badly shaken by the events of the past couple of weeks, even more by the events of the day. Why was this happening? Who was doing this? Questions hissed and buzzed, relentless against our heads, swarming and stinging like bees. The conversation wasn't making me feel any better. We didn't have enough information to learn anything more, so I decided I would leave to try to clear my head.
Walking alone at night, every passerby became a portent; scared and distrustful of each stranger, I began to feel the full weight of the day's events. I found an abandoned bicycle and peddled home as quickly as I could, racing through the streets as though I were being followed; not realizing that arriving home wouldn't assuage my fears.
When I got home I immediately checked the locks and windows. With the company of a large kitchen knife I checked the closets and shower, the large cabinets under the kitchen counter. I placed ceramic plates on the edges of windowsills at angles so that they would fall if the windows were opened, and tilted chairs against locked doors. I kept the knife as I climbed into a bed like a coffin.
Fear and anger fucked loudly on the floor above me, thudding and pounding with the rhythm of my heartbeat. Every sound, no matter how slight, was suspicion. I wondered if this is what the remainder of my nights would be like - lying in fear, waiting, unable to think of anything but unseen dangers, tormented by shadows. In that darkened eternity I died and was reborn 1,000 times as I imagined what negligence, what forgotten precaution, had resulted in my demise. Like the full moon, vulnerable in the night sky - pale and sunburned - I knew no peace.
With the darkness of night fading, I felt my eyes relax, succumbing to something like sleep. Suddenly my alarm fired - jolting me awake.
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I had a dream.
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Time for work.
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