by Joseph Lewis V
There’s this guy, Billy. He’s afraid of the dark. He’s afraid of the light. Billy always had to be in the in-between.
I’m worried about Billy. One day he was going to wake up and see the world as it always was: black and white, with no grey. No place for Billy, just who he was supposed to be.
Billy told me he used to see this girl: psycho, untrustworthy, a real dame of the damned. Billy said she wasn’t good enough for him. Made up some imaginary dream girl to get rid of her, but didn’t have a clue what he was getting himself into.
Psycho girl left and Billy’s dream girl showed up. Dream girl would visit him every night after he drifted off to sleep, he’d tell me. I told him he was crazy. He told me that every night she’d ruin his fantasies, question him over and over about why he didn’t want her, and chase him through his nightmares with a knife.
A week ago, Billy stopped answering his phone, showing up for work. I went over to his house. The door was open. Billy was dead. All I know is on his bedroom mirror, written in lipstick were the words:
“Sorry Billy, it’s not me; it’s you.”
Called the cops. Showed them the mirror, but the words were gone. Cops called the coroners. They zipped up Billy in the bag like he was a big doll. I asked them all, “What happened?”
They all shrugged and told me, “Guy died in his sleep.”