There must have been a dream. Often I awake with the remnants of a dream tantalizing me, but when I try to grasp its tail, it slips away. I had been left not with remnants, but with only a blinding truth. Red Flower had left me with one thing, one thing I know now as surely as a Calvinist eating a deep-fried Mars Bar knows, “If I keep eating these things, it will be the death of me.” Except for me, there’s no “if” and I don’t get to eat a deep-fried Mars Bar. I’m going to be blown up in an elevator. I’m in an elevator, there’s a light, a bang as a bomb goes off and that’s it, except for my last words, which are, “Oh crap.” You’re probably thinking, “Why don’t you just take the stairs, stupid?” Unfortunately, that’s where the dragons are. I would end up in this weird kind of limbo with all the unbaptized babies, not exactly the best of company. I’ll just ride the elevator and take my chances, thanks anyways.
Red Flower left me on my own to consider the dream’s grim message. It just wasn’t fair. What had I done? I couldn’t think of anything. It seemed the Grim Reaper had chosen me for no reason whatsoever. “Was it fate?” It reminded me of a drive through a mountain pass in Greece. By the side of the road were shrines built to commemorate the dead. The higher I ascended, the more shrines there were. By the time I reached the peak, I had counted hundreds, most of them in clusters at blind corners. It seemed the Greek drivers believed they could venture into the oncoming lane of traffic at will. If you asked them, “Aren’t you af raid of dying?” they would probably shrug their shoulders and say, “It’s in the hands of God.”