I awake with a jolt. It’s as if a firecracker has gone off in my head and I’m suddenly more awake than I’ve been in months.
A ringing reverberates in my head, my ears ringing and a course of adrenaline surging through my body. I’m aware of a sickly smell of burning. It smells like Bonfire Night. Sparklers and Catherine wheels. A thousand memories of my childhood flood into my mind at once as I start to sway. I’m standing. I’ve just woken up and I’m standing.
I feel the weight in my hand first. Heavy, solid and cold. I can feel the harsh texture of the surface as I rub my thumb along it, staring blindly ahead as my eyes struggle to adjust to the semi-darkness in front of me. Slowly, I bring my hand up and see the object in my hand for the first time.
The cold, black pistol puffs little wisps of smoke at me, as if teasing me in the low light, the barrel hot to the touch. I don’t know much about guns, but I recognise this as a Russian-style semi-automatic handgun. A powerful beast with a heavy recoil. It’s then that I feel the pain in my wrist and shoulder. A sharp, shooting muscular pain, like a recent sports injury. I look down in front of me and see the blood beginning to pool around the man’s head.
I’m sure I must be hallucinating again. I must be. I have to be. Either that or I’m dreaming. But I feel so awake. So alive. For the first time since I can remember, I’m truly awake.
That must be the paradox.
I recall reading up about nightmares and lucid dreaming. The amount of research I’ve done into sleep disorders over the past few months is baffling and I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on. What I need to do is take control of the situation. If it’s a dream, I’ll wake up. At the very least, I’ll be able to control it and get myself into a position where I don’t alarm myself on waking. This is the only analysis of the situation I’m going to entertain right now.
I walk towards the side unit against the living room wall. It’s decorated with photographs and knick-knacks. A porcelain model of Pinocchio looks up at me, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched as if welcoming an old friend. There’s a stack of papers at one end of the wall unit. I don’t recognise this place at all.
I look more closely at the sheets of paper. One is an electricity bill. £129.60. I look at the name and address.
Gregory Martin.
I recognise the name immediately. I blink hard. Then harder. I move the pistol into my left hand and slap myself across the face with my right. Annoyingly, I can feel myself pulling the punch at the last minute. It’s an inbuilt human response. Something I can’t switch off. It’s the same reason you can’t easily suffocate yourself. That primeval instinct, ingrained over tens of thousands of years of the species, now concentrated in one small, insignificant moment in time.
I try again, this time harder. I’m not waking up.
The realisation hits me.
Before I can think too much, I lift the gun again. Semi-automatic. Self-reloading. No thought required.
I bring the barrel of the gun to my right temple and squeeze the trigger.