In the warmth of her blanket and with her head still fuzzy from the previous night out, Rose woke up in the darkness with a hundred thoughts and feelings still flowing through her mind.

Aware that it was still too early to get up yet also too late to stay up, she laid in her bed hugging her spare, often unused third pillow not daring to check what time it was. Her thoughts swirled around and whether they had been influenced from her already-vanished dreams or not, currently revolved only around herself: her own being, and of the people closest to this fragmented conceptual image of herself.

Her father and her sister, standing there next to the bed staring at her in the blacked-out apartment, their faces young and how she remembered them from her childhood. The looks on these faces brought a sense of calm over Rose as her fingers clamped the edges of that third pillow, sending a serene tickle through her palms and an overwhelmingly palpable sense of sadness to her chest as she lay there on her side.

Rose’’s breathing pattern slowed down in speed and increased in intensity, taking in the fresh early morning breeze whistling gently in from the small opened gap of her sliding balcony door of winter-chilled glass. The smell of settled rain entered her nostrils as her attention switched to yet another familiar face from her past; a best friend from high school who had also come for a long-awaited visit.

Mary, whose name nor face had not occupied her consciousness for so many years joined her immediate family, the three of them now suddenly present and watching over her as she lingered in this mock state of sleep. Mary’s long and wavy shiny brown hair dangled neatly down to her shoulders, and it surprised Rose to recall such a vividly beautiful detail which had always somehow failed to grasp her attention as a teenager; only coming to prominence now long into the future.  Rose remembered the conversations they shared and the support they provided for one another, wondering how and why she never kept in touch after she had to leave [TOWN] upon graduating from [INSTITUTION].

Uncomfortable with these guests coming for this uninvited visit at such an unsociable hour, Rose turned her body away from them so that she was now lying on her back, pulling her hair out from underneath her neck in order to feel the coolness of her favourite, main pillow pressed against the bump on the back of her neck. She placed her hands gently on top of her stomach, but not before quickly pinching Theo’s waist gently just to check that he was till there on her right. Sure enough he was, back turned to her and snoring ever so slightly that it would have been hard for anyone else to have noticed, not even Mary, Dad, or her little sister, persisting in their presence within such close proximity.

Shifting herself again so that she was now lying on the opposite side of which she awoke, Rose wrapped her left arm around Theo’s midriff, sliding her right hand up to the back of his neck as if she were holding onto a double bass. She felt like kissing him on the base of his hairline but could not find the energy nor the right angle to do so, imagining that kiss instead and even pouting her lips in the act. Reassured by his presence and feeling safe from her ghosts in his company, she managed to quietly mouth out a small, incorrect whisper, “Evan,” completely unaware that this name stopped Theo’s snoring and coaxed his eyes open as her mental visitors left the room and returned outside through the thin balcony door opening into the darkness of her solemn past.

Photo source

In this extract we find one of the main characters stuck in a dream/nightmare-like state. It was interesting writing this as I have not previously attempted writing horror or suspense, and so these events merely unfolded as I coaxed my heart to race in an artificial state of fear, if that makes any sense. By closing my eyes, breathing calmly, and then imagining the worst possible place I could be, it helped to prepare myself in the right mood in order to empathise with the character.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

I lie flat on my back on top of the blue ragged sleeping bag which has seemingly shrivelled and shrunken in my absence. I don’t bother uncurling it properly as I wish nothing more right now than to force myself to sleep, trying to, with intense determination, think nothing of how an over-creased lump of so-called waterproof material has developed directly beneath the bones of my lower vertebrae – evidently not doing its job properly given how my rain-soaked clothes are causing the wooden floorboards to squeak softly with moisture as I wriggle myself into an acceptably comfortable position.

Father Thomas is already asleep and, even with my own confused morals, I know better than to trouble him at this late hour for a towel, waking him while covered from head to toe in rain water, blood, and blotches of unidentifiable yet unquestionably rancid garbage dumpster residue. “Have some respect for a man of the cloth,” I think to myself, licking my dried and cracked metallic tasting lips.

My eyes closed and with both my hands behind my head, I know it’s going to be difficult to simply ‘drift off’. The undersides of my eyelids are still gravelly-red and black in colour and warmth as a soul-consuming combination of full moonlight and street lamps from outside the chapel beams in through the stained glass windows of Saints and heroes, and the slow-burning circular tablets of people’s prayers occupy the air with the bleeding black fragrance of wax.

I remove my right hand from its slowly numbing position under the small weak follicles that divide the hair on the back of my head from my neck and bring it up over my face as a shield over my disturbed and all-seeing shut eyes.

The redness beneath my eyelids disappears, replaced only with an artificial darkness of shadow puppet biblical proportions as the now-missing foundation of my makeshift pillow lowers my head, tilted, onto the floor’s late-night chill, sending a rush of cold feedback straight into the back of my skull. My right hand fails to move quickly enough to wrap the unwanted sources of light poking through the thin flaps of my eyelids – resulting in a return to the ghostly silent loneliness of the insomniac. This isn’t working.

I let out a sigh as I re-open my eyes, weakly giving in to the temptation of staring miserably at the criss-crossed supporting beams of the ceiling; the rafters gliding symmetrically into a tiny little square at the very tip, forming the building’s spire.

I swallow a gulp of saliva and feel it struggle its way down my mucous-lined sore throat as it becomes apparent that I am getting a cold; the mere thought of it brings out the hypochondriac within me – eliciting a cold feverish sweat to trickle down my suddenly very warm and very throbbing left temple. I can mentally track the trail of this single bead of sweat, oozing a path like an early sunrise snail crawling over the garden moss of my growing facial hair before it decides to evaporate on the sharp edge of jaw and earlobe. I angrily smack this part of my face more in spite than with any actual intention of self-cleanliness, knowing full well that the drop of perspiration, just like my chances of getting a decent night’s worth of sleep, is long gone.

Giving it one last shot, I turn my body so that I am lying on my left side; my ribs taking my weight and both my legs tucked on top of each other, bent and conflicting, so that I am now partaking in my own amateurish rendition of the foetal position. Sick of my tiredness, sick of my upcoming illness, I angle my eyebrows downwards to make a furrowed V-sign and slam shut my eyes, vowing to, under no circumstances, open them again until the sun is up and illuminating St. Michael and his colourful puzzle-pieced robes. I force myself to travel, anywhere, in my mind, and in doing so I feel pathetic in that my last refuge from the madness of the waking is to transport myself into the lunacy of coerced fantasy. But fuck, I need the rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mercifully, I ride on an initial wave of a floating sensation as the crumpled useless blue sleeping bag becomes smooth on my damp exposed flesh. The muscles of my jagged elbows begin to relax as the warmth of the veiny pulse on my temple envelopes first my face, followed soon after by my chest. I feel the heat of my boiling fever collapse down into the rest of my upper torso before spreading out into my limbs, my heart rate slowing down as I breathe in and out through my mouth. The air is no longer laced with the streaming thin waves of black candle smoke, and my taste buds enjoy a sweet wisp of clean undiluted oxygen so fresh it seems like I am on a different planet altogether.

Now I am in true darkness. Lying on a soft bed I try to decipher piece by piece the other details of these new surroundings of mine. The acceptance that I am 15 years old or thereabouts permeates my mind, my eyes spinning as they follow the motions of a slow rotating brown dust embellished ceiling fan that now replaces the square icon tip of the church’s spire, providing me with a cool room temperature and making redundant the puffy white feather down blanket neatly folded to my side.

I glance to my left with my eyes shut and am able to see the wall next to my bed; the small specks of blue painted stone protruding out in intricacy before disappearing under the thin lines of black shadow beneath large posters, held up by slightly hidden pieces of grey blu-tack on their corners. Footballers and rock bands and lead pencil sketches of dinosaurs.

In front of my feet stands a pale wooden bookshelf positioned a metre away from the corner to its left where the locked door to this room marks the end of the stuck-on shiny images. The roof of the bookshelf holds an unwanted cream-coloured lamp with a stained shade, and I know that it is missing a bulb, along with a few metres’ worth of tangled up telephone wire propping over the top edge an gently touching the roof of the top shelf.  The remainder of the bookshelf is filled with books and magazines of varying thicknesses, organised neatly and lovingly despite the barely visible layer of accumulated dust powdering the top side of their pages.

A long blue and white folded-up umbrella with a thin wooden grip-contoured handle sits in perfect precision and spacing in between the bookshelf and its neighbouring wardrobe, the latter of which props up its own corner and is yellowy-brown in colour and covered with unwanted and unremovable paper white torn remnants of ripped-off stickers. The doors of the wardrobe are shut, but I know that within it lies the in-descript long and short sleeve selections of a generic school uniform, sports label branded t-shirts, loose fitting faded jeans with torn stringy hems, and neatly folded running shorts and leather shoes with worn-out soles and animal-chewed laces.

To my and the wardrobe’s right is a desk covered with assorted stationary and organised piles of scrap pieces of paper with drawings and writings, and exercise books with dog-eared purple and black striped covers. The desk has two small drawers on its right beneath the main bench, both are shut but the top drawers hangs out slightly over the bottom, over-filled. Above the desk is a large window with drawn up horizontal lines of wind-crackling plastic blinds, through which I can make out a front garden with plenty of flowers I do not know the names of.

Right next to my face and further to the right of the desk where the window ends is a black fake wooden computer desk with a large black swivel chair obscuring the whites of the keyboard and the bottom of the obtuse monitor looking at me with its blackened bulgy reflective eye.  The swivel chair’s back support leans against the end of the wall, and my closed eyes are then redirected back to the ever-spinning ceiling fan and its three wing-like arms.

I hear the barking of two dogs from outside this room, one large and one small, increasing ever slightly in volume as I feel concern begin to build within me, rousing me slightly from my relaxed state. The barks are of distress and they drown out what sounds like the loud distant whispers of human shouting. The barks turn to whimpers as it becomes clear that the human voices belong to a man and a woman. A woman that is precious to me.

My feelings of slumber and peacefulness are now shrouded by a clenching fist of familiar dread as my chest starts to heave and I feel the rumblings of my lungs trying to cry out were it not for my overwhelming desire to remain in my own private silence and darkness.

Then I see it through my eyelids again. The fleshy red gravel and internal black flickering of light from an outside source. I dare not open my eyes now as the shouting gets louder and louder and I hear my name being called. Being screamed. “XXXX !!!”

The sinister colours on the insides of my lids now present themselves behind the blinded window, almost as if the terrifying fear I feel from outside the left hand door of the room is now forcing its way in through the right side. The sounds of footsteps somewhere between human feet and horse hooves are stomping closer from both sides as the lock on the doorknob begins to screw itself out and the windows slowly slide open with an unrelenting thunder shaking the blinds so hard they are straining to remain shut.

The single bead of sweat from my temple has returned, and I dare not open my eyes.

In my darkness I hear the doors of the wardrobe and the handles of the desk drawers and the flittering of the posters and the swivelling of the computer chair threaten and quake, and it is then that they rush out.

An army of cockroaches swarm from underneath all the shadows and crevices of the room; I see their feelers and black striped brown bodies tear through the blue painted walls, exploding out with the little pieces of crooked stone and powder. They pile on top of each other from behind the books on the shelf, from within the folded blue and white umbrella, from the pockets of the hung-up pairs of faded jeans, from the drawers of the desk and from underneath the soft white pillows propping up my heavy head. I feel their legs scupper on the hairs of my toes and the back of my ears and the undersides of my upper arms as the booming shouts from outside tear into my eardrums.

I topple over the side of the bed and onto the floor. I slam down on it hard and feel the cold wet wooden floor boards splinter my palms and kneecaps, but before the pain even sets in I feel them. They are stacking up on top of me, numbering in their thousands, baby ones and middle aged ones and old huge ones all mixed as one whole thriving mass of rapid motion.  The broken and shattered blue walls are sinking in their bodies and the ceiling fan merely sends more of them flying onto the back of my head and into my hair where they burrow deeply into my scalp. The screaming from within my own skull is all I hear as the individual sensations of their tiny feet on my body are now replaced with the shock of knowing they are in my mouth. They consume the moisture around my tongue. They resist the wild swinging of my limbs. They dig in under my eyelids, and the flickering red and black burnt into my retinas are now replaced by the blurry microscopic vision of the little legs scratching my eyeballs until all I can see is brown.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then blood red.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then white.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun is up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

St Michael’s robes are glowing with resplendent purple and orange and green. My gasps for air are interrupted by the build-up of phlegm in my throat, and breathing through my mouth only worsens the blockage of my nasal cavity. I jump to my feet and scratch and dig and scrape away at my neck and chest and legs in a fury of possessed fear.  In my frenzied spasms of unapologetic self-cleansing I slip sharply on the sweat-soaked blue sleeping bag and slam my face onto the old wooden floorboards, instantly causing my head to swell in a fire of nausea.

Eyes are closed. Eyes are open. Eyes closed. Eyes infiltrated by German cockroaches. And now, in no uncertain terms, eyes are most definitely closed.
Wandering off into an unexpected undefined amount of additional darkness, I hear Father Thomas say the words “Fookin’ ‘Ell,” in that deep Irish accent of his. I am conscious of the bloody mucous leaking out from my nostrils as I vow, this time, like a hypocrite, to never, ever, Ever, force myself to sleep again.

Photo courtesy of Anderson Missouri United Methodist Church

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

Another sneak peak. Potential spoilers all XXX’d out.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

I make it about two blocks away from the church when I decide it’s time to ditch the umbrella. Sorry, Father XXXX, but getting drenched wins next to getting beaten up by some massive European psycho. I glance back between my long and frantic strides to try and throw it at him, not that umbrellas, especially broken ones, are known as great projectile weapons. I miss him by a mile. Plus, even if I was on target, chances are he’s probably good at the baton relay anyway judging by the serious look on his face, the grip he had on my neck when we first met, and his ever-increasing pace bringing him far too close for my own comfort. He must only be about 15 yards behind me.

Even now, in this fight or flight moment when my choice is clearly ‘flight’, I can’t help but think of how the priest called me ‘XXXX’. Was it…a guess? I almost slip as I make a sharp turn down an alleyway leading to a large open square area obstacle-course filled with fire-lit trash cans. Or does he actually know me? I see a host of homeless people ahead of me as I dodge and weave through the burning cans, the smell of kerosene and methylated spirits absorbed by my adrenalin-aided acute sense of smell. Have we met before? I begin tipping over the bins, hoping to set up some sort of fire trap between him and I, much to the annoyance of my fellow bums whose moans I hear in-between the sounds of clattering and the stomping and slapping of our feet on wet pot-holed concrete. Maybe he just called me XXXX through randomness, seeing if I’d react. And react I did.

The questions in my mind stop when we get to the end of bumtown and my exit path returns back to a narrow alley. Ahead of me a half-dozen or so overfilled wheely bins are blocking the path, with a congregation of feral cats ceasing their paw licks and arching their backs as they see me coming before flinging themselves away into the balconies above. Baton relays, obstacle courses…now it’s the long jump. I don’t have the time to look back at my pursuer, never mind question my ability in pulling this off, as I stop momentarily to ready myself. Those bins are at least a yard and a half high, and maybe 12 yards long. And it looks like their lids are open. Fuck knows what’s behind it all, too. Shit. Puffing out my cheeks and without any other options, I go for it.

Photo courtesy of Flickr

I’m not sure how or why, or whether it was even my intention, but I leap through the filthy garbage-soiled air arms and head first, as if I’m diving into a pool. I land square onto the contents of maybe the third wheely bin out of 6, breaking several bin liner bags upon impact and immediately embraced by an Extravaganza of Shit: rotten bleeding tomatoes, domestic garbage juice, lipstick smeared cigarette butts covered in flakes of wet ash and stained yellowy black by putrid nicotine, discarded fast food outlet condiments in half-ripped little containers, even the carcass of a dead medium-sized fucking DOG. You name it, I’m covered by it: Fun for the Whole Family. And…I can still probably look forward to a slow death. Fuck, my lucky day. Best not to dwell on that last bit. I dig my elbows into the the bloated puffs of garbage bags and loose paraphernalia to keep on going onto the fourth bin, whose lid is open as well. Thankfully the last two have their lids closed and so I only have one last sojourn through a dumpster, which surely can’t be as bad as this last one.

Mercifully, this fourth bin is practically empty bar a pair of neatly tied-up and, I suppose, ‘average-looking’ liners. Good to see someone in this town cares about hygiene and cleanliness. As I appreciate the qualities of well-mannered waste disposal and its previously unbeknownst benefits, I hear the squeak of partially locked, rusty and overloaded wheels. The Euro is shoving the dumpsters out of the way! Perhaps he didn’t fancy a bit of a dip into garbage juice and has decided to forcefully clear the path, maybe his muscle bulk is holding him back? I don’t know, but it buys me some time.

I opt not to rest on my laurels and scurry across onto the fifth bin’s lid, losing my footing for an instant and slamming hard onto its surface. My European pursuer in the meantime has made it to the second bin, pulling it away and getting frustrated by the locked wheels as his actions become more violent: this time he’s the one who’s acting all frantic. He lets out an angry grunt as I dig my fingernails into the hard black plastic lid of the final dumpster, lashing out with kicks to try and dislodge the wheel clamps. We both know by now that I’m going to escape.

As I slide off the last obstacle and back down to the ground, I hear him shout “No! No!” repeatedly, still kicking the slippery clamps ceaselessly and with no apparent pain. We must be less than ten yards away from each other, but humanity’s waste and unwanted belongings have provided me with a much-needed safety barrier. With much relief, I get back on my feet and keep on running ahead for another three blocks through narrow alleyways and small streets.

I run until I am exhausted, hunching my hands onto my knees as I find myself struggling for breath. I draw much unwanted attention onto myself when I see that I’ve made it onto a main road, where several heavily coated pedestrians start whispering to each other and even the odd car passengers hang out the side windows of moving cars to hurl abuse at me. What a city, indeed. I may be covered in smeared pulps of fruit and smell like hell, but I am just so so relieved to still be alive, even if I am gasping for life. Surely I’ve lost him by now, the relief settling in as I lean onto a dented steel trash can’s circular lid as a fulcrum for my unbalanced physical self. I concentrate my by-now starry eyes on the wet bin lid. To think that garbage containers are my new saviour; I’d kiss this one if it wasn’t for the overriding final flickering sign of common-sense firmly telling me “NO”. I begin to feel the onset of an asthma attack and need to better focus my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

A well-dressed blonde girl in her early twenties with a bright green umbrella passes by, her heels clickety-clacking on the pavement as she conjures up a revolted look on her face. I don’t quite know why; it was I who almost had to contemplate the undesirable issue of sharing a final resting place with a dead bulldog. Her thoughts enter my mind, and I can tell she perhaps isn’t that well educated from the way she’s reacting to the sight of mouldy yoghurt on my chest: “Ewww, yuck that is SO gross.” Again, people’s thoughts entering my head as the asthma attack starts to loosen its grip. I squat down to speed up the recovery process.

Minutes pass as I hover there, peering over the movement of people and the rushing of cars, the blur of colours reminding me of the euphoric feeling of Father XXXX’s codeine-laced soup. I’m beginning to enjoy it but my vision starts to sharpen, and I am left just a little disappointed at this resumption of normality. That was a close one. My mind is now back to a more sane state, the adrenalin going through its final laps in my body. I wonder who this European hulk of a man is and, importantly as far as self preservation goes, why the hell he’s after me.

“Me,” I say out loud.

“XXXX”.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

Okay, another extract of what we’ve come up with. This time, it’s an out-of-body experience from one of our main characters. There will be a fair bit of that in the story because, after all, our existences are a mixture of the real and what we perceive to be real, aren’t they? We all have our masks, and create our own realities when we see fit every now and again. Or at least I do.

Again, names have been XXX’d out where appropriate. I am pleased with the content so far, and it won’t be long now before the first chapter, or pilot, will be ready in its entirety. Thank you to Hunter Red for the comment in the last post: from someone I don’t know! It drives me on, so cheers for the feedback.

Unpublished Work © 2009 Will Ooi. All Rights Reserved

I close my eyes and doze off, my consciousness declining as I lay, uncomfortably, on the makeshift stained mattress XXXX  has provided me with. As my thoughts drift off into abstract shapes and ideals, once again I feel like I am suspended in the air, floating in the midst of the brightness of white light. My body hangs limply as I take in this familiar environment of white. It’s almost as if I am observing myself from a third person perspective. “This better not be the hospital again,” I think to myself, but as I look around I see that there there are no nurses, no patients, no stitches hanging off crude steel instruments. No smell of generic disinfectant; in fact there is no smell at all, actually. I look back over to study ‘myself’.  My face is calm, tranquil. I am resolved, it seems. The clothes I am wearing are no longer soaked in rain or blood. My hair is dry. I know I am dreaming. I feel a surge of euphoria rush through my body as I re-enter myself, and when I open my eyes I am looking out directly through them: I am back in my own head.

My breaths are slow and deep, and with each one it feels like I am gasping for life, and yet there is no panic. No raised heartbeat.

The white around me begins to change, swirling with purple and black colours. What appears to be a whirlwind materialises underneath me, gaining in momentum as an invisible wind drags it around in circles. My body starts to float down, through these clouds. I appear to be travelling at a fast speed, the wind rustling through my hair and clothes, yet I needn’t worry about covering my eyes: I see it all in true clarity.

As I plummet down through the seemingly endless congregation of purple and black clouds, I hear a voice. It is deep and soothing, and the sound of it booms through my very being. It is a familiar voice, even though I am sure I have never heard it before. It’s almost as if I am an infant being cradled in the arms of my mother. My mother…before I can think too long about this, words rumble through the air.

“XXXX,” it says, in neither a male nor female tone.

“XXXX….XXXX,” slowly and repeatedly, with the longings of lost friend or family member from bygone years, now reacquainted.

“You have done well, XXXX. You have done your purpose well.”

“What have I done?” I ask immediately, without even thinking.

“You saved her. You were put there to save her, and you did it.”

The little girl. I see her face in front of me, pale, with scars. Her expression is one of neutrality.

“But I don’t understand, I don’t understand what’s going on,” I plead, out into the clouds as the little girl’s face disappears.

“You will, XXXX. You will understand.” The voice is now distinctly female, but not one I can connect to anybody I have met so far.

There are so many questions in my head, and in trying to decide which one to ask first I simply confuse myself.

“Then…who am I? And who are you?” I manage to splutter out, my voice getting just a little desperate.

The voice goes silent. It is making me wait, and I begin to fall faster and faster. I am starting to panic.

“You are who I made you to be. And I am the one who made you. You are mine,” comes the response, cryptically, and this time in a male voice. What the fuck? I am his/hers/whatever/whoever the fuck this is?

Not exactly the sort of answer I was after, but what concerns me the most now is the fact that I have fully entered free fall, and the feeling of tranquility is long gone. I pass through the clouds and see the city, the same city that I have by now become accustomed to, with all its grime and discomfort, below me. Rooftops like little rectangles and squares, slowly and ever increasing in size. Then, suddenly, the fear. The surrounding silence turns loud, and I am falling and begin to scream but no sound comes out of my mouth. I cannot move my body, falling helplessly with speed. “No…no!” I am thinking in my head, feeling as if I am being held down head-first, forced to witness my own demise by some cruel and torturous being. The comforting knowledge that I am participating in a dream is now gone. This is real…it feels absolutely real.

I see a familiar building on my way down, with a high pointed tower. A church. My church. As my eyes determine that I am headed straight for the tip of the tower, I scream again, and this time it resonates. I let off a terrifying, blood-curdling scream as a white flash stings my eyes.

…

I leap up, shouting and sweating. I feel much warmer than I just did, in my sleep state. What a helluva dream that was. My breathing is just as it had been moments earlier, heavy and deep, but this time I feel my pulse pumping in my neck. I look around and feel grateful that I am here, of all places: inside the church, and not impaled on its spire. My conditions may not be pristine, but I am safe. At least for now. I hope I haven’t woken up XXXX.

I lie back down and try to go back to sleep, thinking about what just happened, and what its significance is. The voice is stil ringing in my head, as I repeat the words that were said to me. “You are who I made you to be…You are mine” What does that even mean? Was it a dream, or a memory? My mother or father?

A cockroach crawls past slowly, unafraid of my presence as I lay back down and curl up on the mattress. It’s as if it can sense I’m feeling a bit too fucked up right now to threaten its life. I control my breathing and calm myself down. As messed up as whatever it was that just happened was, at least even if I don’t know who I am exactly, I now know that someone else out there, he or she or whatever it is, does. My eyes tire and I hope that my soon-to-be unconscious state will just consist of nothing. No more dreams, please. Just dark. Dark will do fine.