My wife seemed sound asleep as I looked over at her side of the bed, awakened in a cold sweat in the middle of the night from the strangest dream. Like many of my dreams, they don’t exactly manifest in the form of placing me in its shoes, seeing the fantasy world from my own point of view. It’s more like watching a film play out before me; the invisible camera operator guides the picture whichever so way they please, and I simply sit back and watch it unfold. I’d brought this up to my psychiatrist many times before, of course, and his reaction was always the same. “Isn’t it obvious, Ace?” he’d playfully tease, “You’re an actor. It only makes sense.”
This one started differently than any other one my mind had conjured up before. I was guided along an aisle between a sea of auditorium seats, and vertically ahead sat the dock of the theater stage. Unlike the vacant cushioned red row seats that surrounded me, the stage appeared occupied with 12 figures that I assumed to be the actors. From this distance, their faces and even the outlines of their bodies stood as a blur.
The ‘camera’ proceeded forward, and as it did so, my line of sight became more in-focused, and strangely enough, I could make out that they were all of a similar size, race, age, and near identical in stature, only slightly different in their demeanor, and I could almost swear, the closer I got, I could hear them all speaking amongst each other with the exact same voice. It didn’t take me long to figure out that they were identical variants of one another, but furthermore, I was a little embarrassed of myself of how long it took to realize that they were all actually duplicates of myself.
Twelve different versions of myself, dressed in separate costumes and hairstyles, speaking in different accents and dialects, all mingling amongst themselves in a single horizontal line across the stage, the entire scene looked like a moving painting of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. As I stepped closer - or I should say ‘glided’ closer, wherever which way this imaginary ‘camera’ intended to lead me - one peculiar version of myself stood out to me first. It wore a brown leather jacket, washed-out jeans on top of rugged boots, and blew a cigarette as the fumes danced over its curly brown bowl-cut hair.
That was the Lance Jackson character I’d played in The Curbside Chronicles, one of my first gigs on an old NBC serial drama back in my early acting days. The character was somewhat of a rip-off of James Dean’s Rebel Without a Cause if the angsty teen persona didn’t sell that enough.
Another one presently on the stage was my Reese Malone character I’d played in my first feature film role, a shy but clever recluse who served as the ‘nerdy one’ of the bunch amongst the main cast in the movie. And no, I didn’t get the girl in the end.
Henry Clerval, in a made-for-TV adaptation of Frankenstein, appeared on the stage as well, standing out like a sore thumb dressed in 19th-century garb. That one landed me a Primetime Emmy nomination.
Then there was Charlie Stone, the tall, dark, and handsome gentleman next door who actually did get the girl this time in a romantic comedy I’d played in. Don’t confuse that flattering description of myself with me being conceited; my makeup artist did wonders for me in that role, I remember. God, I secretly cringe looking back on it, though I’d never mention a word of it in interviews.
Cliff Potter, the passionate and eager-to-please high school teacher with a chip on his shoulder, did everything in his power to prove to his inner-city students the importance of a good education to get far in this life. Ugh, not one of my proudest works - another to add to the bad trend of ‘white savior’ flicks from the 90s.
As the perspective shifted through the line of the various roles I’d played over the years, like a physical timeline of my portfolio reflected before me, I began to notice the main one who stood center stage, not talking to anyone. Instead, his eyes stared off aimlessly into the empty crowd.
It was one of the more recent roles I’d played, just after the one that landed me my first Oscar. Jonathan Mayfield, a good family man, loyal husband, caring father role I nabbed in ABC’s latest sitcom, Joop’s Boulevard, a complete reverse from the role I’d played prior…
I tried to make out the words that were being said amongst the crowd of duplicates of myself, but to no avail. You know how dreams are; nothing makes sense at all while everything also does at the same time, in the moment, at least. It’s not until you wake up and realize how nonsensical everything is. Words and text appear impossible to decipher in dreams, and hearing things with your left and right brain sometimes proved no different.
Though, as I concentrated harder, I began to notice that the volume that they were all speaking at began to descend, until, eventually, they each came down to a subtle whisper to the variant next to them. Just going off of my judge of character, though I still couldn’t make out their words, they seemed to be whispering out of means to keep some sort of secret, as if they didn’t want to be heard. Everyone but Jonathan, that is, who remained as frozen and rooted to the ground as a tree, staring off blankly into the distance.
Then the ‘camera’ began to pan more toward his direction, and soon began closing in on his face. Even though my physical body wasn’t present in this very scene, from some abstract dimension, I suppose, a sensation from within my gut grew a nervous itch. Something was off about Jonathan’s eyes. They were mine, of course, with my actor body serving as the canvas that played him, but his lifeless eyes, as I perceived them, weren’t actually lifeless at all. Something lay just beyond the windows of his sockets.
He was afraid. Of what, I didn’t know, and that, in turn, made me just as anxious…
In the frame of the dream currently presented by the ‘camera,’ Jonathan then remained the only center focus of attention, his paralyzed, panic-filled eyes serving as a close-up shot. It’s almost as if he was staring at me face-to-face, making me more uneasy. And at once, the whispering amongst the eleven other clones of myself stopped altogether, and dead silence remained.
I could feel my heartbeat rapidly climb from that imaginary place where my body would’ve otherwise stood, and slowly, as the ‘camera’ panned into an over-the-shoulder shot in reference to Jonathan, I suddenly discovered the source of fear shared by him and the rest.
Behind him stood the character I chose to shut the door on and never look back a little over a year ago now, the one who, even in my dreams, still came knocking even after all this time. The Oscar winner himself…
He stood parallel behind Jonathan, glaring malevolently at him, but Jonathan remained to stare forward, trembling, as if he knew turning his head would end for him the same way it did the Greeks who looked Medusa in the eye.
I woke from the dream immediately after that with a sort of survivor’s relief, as if doing so saved Jonathan’s life. Ridiculous, I know, but as I said before, you know how dreams can be…
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chateau Marmont
The following afternoon, we wrapped up shooting for the day for the new and upcoming police detective role I was currently starring in as the lead, and I was now leaving the studio lot to meet Patrice for lunch at the Chateau Marmont, our usual lunch date spot. She had ordered her usual caesar salad with a side of just berries (said she was trying to watch her weight, which I thought was ridiculous; she looked fine) and I got the charcuterie board with a side of hummus and fries.
Patrice liked to make fun of the way I took it upon myself to remove pieces of crackers and cheese of the sort that overlapped each other and placed them at their own corners of the plate. I’m one of those types; I just didn’t like things on my plate touching each other.
Some moments passed of us picking out our meals before she started with her opening question.
“How’s shooting going?” she asked, taking a bite out of her salad.
I nodded, as I was still chewing my own food before scarfing it down and answering, “Good. I think this season’s gonna be really good this time around.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m sure the ABC execs could use the pull. Not everyone’s fully gotten on board with moving everything over to streaming, it seems like.”
“It’s streaming,” I affirmed.
“I know, but you know how stubborn a lot of the oldheads are with understanding that the days of episodic, weekly releases are kind of a thing of the past. Everyone wants to binge nowadays.”
“Mmm, I don’t know. I think there’s some sort of strategy to doing weekly releases over dumping everything at once still,” I added. “I mean, think about it, you binge a whole 13, 22-episode season at once in, like, one or two days, and then now you’re craving more and you have to wait a whole entire before the next one is released, versus if you release then weekly throughout the season, it gives more time for people to talk about it, bringing in more viewership and buzz, and then before you know it, hey, season two is out before winter.”
Patrice concurred with a nod. “Touche. Maybe you can sit in with me at some of these exec meetings back at Universal; they could learn a thing or two from you.”
Patrice was only five years my junior, but if you ask me, leagues ahead of me in the game. I’d been acting since I was a child and got my first break when I was a still pretty much a kid at the age of 15, but ever since she sealed her first contract with CBS to direct an episode of Jordan Peele’s 2019 revamp of The Twilight Zone, she’s been a trailblazer amongst her peers, defying the odds that a woman can still make it in this business well past her prime. She’s long paid her dues jumping through hoops, from running miscellaneous (and at times downright demanding) errands as an on-set PA, then onto 2nd Assistant Director, followed by 1st Assistant Director, before finally landing her big break. The rest is history; she runs her own production company now after her first Primetime Emmy win, and is now in talks to direct and produce the next big project in collaboration with Monkey Paw, A24, as well as Blumhouse. To say I was proud of her was an understatement. She didn’t need my approval.
She then changed the subject.
“So, when I woke up this morning, I found a nice little note left on the kitchen island after you left,” she spoke in a playful inflection, as though it were an inside joke of some kind.
I furrowed my brows. “What note?” I asked honestly.
She smirked suspiciously, like a parent questioning a guilty child.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” she teased.
“Uh, sorry, hon, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.
She shook her head. “You’re not gonna give me anything, huh?”
“Give you what?”
“You’re acting skills may fool the rest of the world, but you can’t fool me.”
She then pulled out a small folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of her blazer, which I assumed was the note she was referring to. She held it up momentarily for emphasis before opening it up and revealing what was inscribed.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie,” she read the words aloud, sending slight shivers down my spine.
A nervous chuckle escaped me, as I didn’t have a clue as to where the note came from, though there seemed to be no other suspect at the moment. She and I were the only ones who lived in that big house, and Teresa, our cleaning lady, only stopped by once every two weeks, and this week wasn’t her turn.
“Hey, tell you what, I won’t spoil any ‘possible’ upcoming surprises for our… you know,” Patrice said.
I did know exactly what she was referring to. Our 7th anniversary was just two weeks away, and no, I didn’t forget. But this wasn’t part of any elaborate scheme leading up to a big surprise. That wasn’t what I had planned, anyways.
“Patty, I’m sorry, honey, I seriously don’t know-”
“Gosh, you thespians sure know how to commit to a role, don’t you?” she leaned back in her seat, hands clasped, still attempting to fish it out of me - to which ‘it,’ I still wasn’t sure of.
“You said you found it on the kitchen table this morning?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I took a closer look at the words, particularly the handwriting. It wasn’t in the way that I wrote.
“That’s not even my handwriting,” I noted.
“Oh yeah, I’m quite aware of your dedication skills to playing the part - believe me, I know,” she egged on.
I stammered at what to say next, but nothing came out.
“Like I said, I won’t spoil the fun. I’ll just play along and see where this leads me to,” she continued. “Besides, who said I maybe didn’t have a little surprise of my own?”
She sipped her sparkling lemon water as my eyes somehow got transfixed on the endless bubbles fluttering to the top of the glass.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie?” I repeated the words.
It was the most quoted, repeated, and arguably recognized line from modern-day cinema taken from the last picture that cemented my status as an Academy Award winner. It was as famous a line as “Good evening, Clarice” or “May the Force be with you.”
“I’ve tried not to even think about that script since…” I began, then faltered.
Patrice grew quieter as well, dancing her fork between her salad.
“I know,” she spoke in a low voice. “Me neither. That’s why I was… intrigued, is all. Hopefully, it doesn’t in damage control or anything like that,” she dryly humored.
After taking a bite from her fork, she looked up and noticed the solemn demeanor on my face, and quickly reverted herself.
“I was just kidding, babe,” she tried to soothe.
I took in a quick, deep breath and looked down to notice I’d barely touched my food.
“You know how I feel about that role,” I said almost in a whisper.
Patrice nodded earnestly. “I’m sorry. That was… insensitive of me. Trust and believe, I didn’t forget.”
All I could remember, on the other hand, from last night was that disturbing, trippy-ass dream. I never experienced anything like it. I just said I hadn’t thought of that role since then, and yet, he showed up at my subconscious door last night, clear as day, as true as the sky is blue…
“I think I might need to pay Cromwell a visit,” I suggested.
“Cromwell? Why?”
“I think I might be sleepwalking.”
“Um, what makes you think that? You’ve never sleepwalked before. Right? Well, at least as long as I’ve known you.”
“No, I haven’t, but I remember my mother saying that my dad used to do it years ago from time to time. Not too often, just once in a blue moon, but it did happen, so I know it runs in the family. I’ve been told it’s genetic.”
“Do you think it can happen this late in your age?”
“It’s possible. It’s the only other explanation I can think of as to how that got there.”
I could tell Patrice wanted to prod again with another playful tease at the notion that I was bluffing but could perceive her noticeably restraining herself.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Cedars-Sinai Medical Center
“So, how’s the production going?” Dr. Cromwell asked, taking a seat in the chair across from mine.
“Well,” I nodded. “Very well.”
“That’s very good to hear.”
His cheerful, gravelly, booming voice was filtered throughout his old age, and I always found his grey mustache to be a suitable accessory to his facial features. Patrice jokingly referred to him as the ‘real-life Pringles man.’
“My wife and I finally got through season one just the other week,” he continued, “after we finally had some time to ourselves to relax finally, and I gotta say, you might be my new favorite TV dad, Ace.”
I smiled and forced a flattered chuckle. “Aww, you’re too kind, Kirk.”
“Well, I think the day I become ‘too kind’ might be the day my field of profession is a little too oversaturated,” he joked. “So tell me, what’s on your mind? I know since the last time we spoke, we were at a different place, but it seems that things have improved since then, which is wonderful, but I’ll go ahead and stop speaking and let you have the floor, yeah?”
I inhaled and exhaled.
“Well, like you mentioned, things have been a lot better since last year. I, uh, haven’t had a drink in six months, so that’s something.”
“Good,” Cromwell uttered. “Is that something you’ve been managing well? Are you happy with staying sober?”
“Much happier,” I affirmed. “I haven’t had a taste for a beer, wine, anything since…”
My mind began to trail off to last night’s vision of terror. The menacing figure looming over Jonathan flashed in my mind.
“... Yeah, since then,” I finished.
“That’s great, Ace,” Cromwell said. “That’s really great. Glad to hear things are going well for you.”
“Mmm, well, almost perfectly well.”
A short laugh escaped Cromwell. “I guess I suppose you wouldn’t be here today if things were, am I right?”
“Yeah… just a forewarning, it’s nothing bad, really. At least, nothing at this level, I should say.”
Cromwell’s lips furrowed in a curious study.
“I… think I sleepwalked last night,” I confessed in a low tone as if I had just admitted to wetting the bed. “As far as I know, I’ve never done it before. I mean, Patrice claims I never have, but I do know it runs in the family. My father used to do it once in a while, years before he passed, per my mother.”
“Hmm,” Cromwell uttered. “What made you come to that conclusion? That you sleepwalked?”
“Well, yesterday, Patrice and I had lunch, and she pulled out a note that she said I left on the kitchen island either the night before or maybe the next morning - whenever. I have it right here, actually.”
I pulled out the note and handed it to him to see for himself.
“Recognize the words?” I asked.
Doc’s eyes danced left and right in succession as they studied the paper.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie,” Cromwell repeated the words. “If I didn’t know any better, that’s a quote from The Eight Ball, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right.”
“Congratulations on your Oscar win, by the way.”
I hesitated a moment before responding with, “Thank you.”
“But uh… I’m sure you’re not just here to gloat about your recent career boost to me now, are you?” Cromwell candidly confirmed.
“... No,” I answered sincerely. “To be honest, Kirk, I know it sounds a little ungrateful to say, but I’m not proud of my win. Everyone around me praises me for my work, applauds me for my performance, saying I absolutely, without a doubt, deserved it, but the truth is…”
I trailed off, noticing Cromwell’s understanding visage, knowing good well why I felt the way I did.
“... Well, you remember how I was last year,” I stated, to which Cromwell concurred with a single nod. “The heavy amounts of drinking, the bad financial decisions I made, the random violent outbursts…”
I shook my head at every word that carried with my voice, ashamed of each action I’d made in the past year following the departure from the role.
“I swore to myself,” I continued, “swore to Patrice, that I’d never take it that far ever again for any role that comes my way from here on out. I will never commit myself that much to a character like that again. Any character.”
Cromwell squiggled his notes on a piece of paper.
“I’m going to assume that,” Cromwell held up the note, “that based on this note, and based on what you’ve told me today, you believe this is what you wrote when you slept-walked - excuse me, sleepwalked - last night, something in relation to the character you played in that film? The same film that nabbed you the Academy Award, must be still haunting you? Is that correct for me to assume, Ace?”
My face stared off at the ground at Cromwell’s feet, I’d imagine in the same pose I’d seen Jonathan replicating in the dream. And as with the dream, from some unseen dimension, I could feel the presence of some malevolent figure looming over me, with me oblivious to his company.
I simply nodded as an answer, as if speaking might set off an internal alarm of dreadful pandemonium.
A moment of silence passed before I finally had the courage to speak again, clearing my throat.
“If you notice, too,” I added, “from my pre-screening sheet when I signed in at the desk, you’ll notice my handwriting on their compared to the handwriting on the note aren’t even the same. I know that because when I took on the role of… him, I adapted a new one to better immerse myself.”
I followed Doc’s eyes again, noticing them shift left and right from both sheets of paper, as his head nodded in confirmation.
“Yeah, it does look like two different people wrote these,” Cromwell said. “Ace, last night, when you believed to have been sleepwalking, as you claim, do you recall having any dreams of some sort?” Cromwell finally asked. I was expecting it.
“Yes,” I whispered. “He was there.”
“Who was?”
That face… that face burned into my brain. A glare that could make the Devil himself flench.
“Geb Oleander,” I hissed his name, like spouting venom from a snake. “The character I played.”
“Mmm,” Cromwell nodded. “And why do you think Geb would show up in your dream last night? Has he been on your mind lately?”
I shook my head. “No, no he hasn’t,” I answered quickly. “He’s the last thing I’d want on my mind. And I’m not sure why he popped up in my dream, or nightmare, I should call it.”
“Describe the dream to me - if you feel comfortable, of course.”
Maybe talking it out with someone was just what I needed to shake the feeling off. After all, that’s what Kirk was here for.
I described in as great of detail as I could recollect, from how the perspective of the dream seemed equivalent to treading along a dolly camera system, and how it felt like I was floating rather than walking, to the numerous duplicate versions of myself in the different roles I’d played over the years lined up on stage mingling, and of course, the terrifying transition of the dream into a nightmare as the camera closed in on the Jonathan alter ego-version of myself, petrified as a prey locking eyes with its predator.
“I haven’t thought about him in over a year, and there he was, as if he was just, you know, taunting me,” I spoke. “Almost like a reminder, you know? Like, he was saying, ‘I’m still here.’”
I don’t think I realized it at that moment, but my voice had changed to his when I said the words, and with a shuddered recoil, quickly brought myself back.
The doc’s left hand scribbled across the paper in various loops and directions, which I assumed was legible to him and only him.
“Ace, correct me if I’m wrong, but the current part you’re playing right now - that you’re currently shooting - is a detective role, yes?” Cromwell asked.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“This is a new sort of part for you, isn’t it?”
I tilted my head left and right in a so-so way. “I’ve played similar personality types in the past, but this is my first actual role as a cop, yes.”
“So you’ve been fulfilling this new role as a police detective, a very competent one at his job, I’d assume, and you’re now having visions and nightmares of a previous role you played as a serial killer returning in your sleep… can you guess where I might be going with this?”
It wasn’t that hard to put two and two together. I think Kirk sometimes forgets that part of my job as an actor is to be a part-time psychologist in order to get in the heads of each character I play. No offense to him.
“You think the archetype of the detective is in a tug-a-war within my subconscious against that of the serial killer?” I presumed to be the correct answer.
Cromwell nodded, then raised his hand in preparation for possible blowback, “It’s all right, you can say it.”
I let out a brief sigh. “I know it’s your job to analyze down to the barest bone, but don’t you think that might be a bit of a reach, Doc?”
“Ace, wouldn’t you agree cutting a patient down to the barest bone to discover an ailment can be quite unnecessary when all they came in with was a bad cough?” Cromwell remarked.
As funny as it sounded, I suppose he had a point.
He continued, “Sometimes, the simplest answer is just that. Our brains hide everything from us while at the same time leaving behind its messy footprints for all of us to see. You being the actor that you are of your caliber, I’d imagine, are putting in all this work, all this research, studying this new character you’ve taken on from top to bottom, reshaping your mind into that of an actual detective - this is simultaneously coinciding with the previous role that you did as the complete opposite, whether your consciousness chooses to recognize it or not. I can see it clear as day. You soon start to realize that our different personalities within us aren’t just separate pieces of a puzzle, but instead they all bleed into each other. A baked pie had to be whole before it got sliced into pieces, it didn’t just become that way to start. Now, am I one-hundred percent confident that I’m right on that theory? Of course not. Everything is subject to be questioned and further analyzed like anything else, and me being an expert doesn’t make me the expert. However, the last thing I want for you is to overthink and overanalyze a problem that’s already proving to be somewhat stressful for you. For the sake of simplicity, for now, let’s just say things are exactly as they appear, yeah?”
At the end of the session, after some time chit-chatting and discussing more trivial matters, Cromwell slipped me his own special doctor’s note for reference in case the studio execs or producers needed it.
“I’m gonna prescribe you some Trazadone,” Cromwell said. “We’ll start you at a low dose of 25 mg, and if need be, we can increase the dosage if your quality of sleep doesn’t improve. It should help lower the chances of any potential sleepwalking in the future. I also recommend asking Patrice to keep tabs on you as well, see if she notices any unusual sleep patterns from you or, of course, if you commit the naughty deed, of you sleepwalk again.”
He smiled to add a pinch of humor at the end to always try and end on a positive note, putting up his finger like a parent politely correcting their child, and I appreciated his warm goodwill. I was to have a follow-up appointment with him again three weeks from now for an update.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
After picking up my Trazadone prescription from the pharmacy, I was exiting the hospital lobby when suddenly a high, cheery female voice called out my name.
“Ace!” the voice called.
I jerked my head, always expecting the 50/50 chance of an unexpected fan encounter, then was met with delightful surprise to see my old co-star.
“Mandy,” I grinned as I made my way over to her for a hug.
We briefly embraced, as we hadn’t seen each other in a little over eight months since we wrapped up shooting on The Eight Ball, and a firsthand, up-close witness to my elaborate performance as the notorious Geb Oleander. She did reach out to me much later than that, actually, after news broke out - thanks to TMZ, yours truly - that I went into rehab, showing her support and that if Patrice and I ever needed anything she’d be there.
“How’ve you been?” she began. “You and Patrice getting by well?”
“Yeah, we’re great, Patrice is doing wonderful. I mean, can’t even begin to scratch the surface,” I said forcing a chuckle.
“Oh, that’s so good to hear… and you? How’ve things been? I know since we last spoke, things were kinda…”
She didn’t have to finish, as I knew exactly what she was about to say.
“I’m doing much better, thanks,” I assured her. “Much, much better.”
“That’s great, Ace. Seriously, I’m happy for you - happy for you both.”
“Thanks, Mandy. You look great, by the way. I’m digging the blonde on you.”
She blushingly scoffed. “Aww, you like it? Thought I’d switch things up, ya know? Gotta reinvent yourself every once in a while. You’re not looking too bad yourself, these days. TJ and I’ve been watching Joop’s Boulevard almost every week, when we have time, that is, and we both just adore you as Jonathan on the show.”
I coyly smirked to the side. “Aww, thanks,” I appreciated. “I see you’re making big moves yourself. Hear you’re in talks with signing a deal with Disney for an upcoming Marvel project?”
“Mmm,” Mandy playfully grinned, looking to the side. “I’ll just say, it’s ‘in the talks’ still.”
“Nice. I have no doubt they’ll find a good fit for you. Patrice is more of the geek with that stuff, so I’m sure she could give you some pointers.”
She laughed. “Well, Ace, I’d love to stay and chat some more, but I got a meeting to get to in like” - she looked at her smartwatch - “yikes, fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, no worries, we’ll catch up,” I let her on her way.
We were both just leaving the hospital and on our way out, and I held the door open for her as we both exited the building. She pulled out her Ray Bans and slipped them over her eyes as the bright LA sun stunned us both in the face.
“But hey,” Mandy said, “send me a text later and we should all plan to get together and have dinner or something, yeah? TJ and I, you and Patrice? We’ll make it a double date.”
“Absolutely, that sounds good to me. I’ll catch ya later, Mandy.”
“It was good seeing you, Ace!” she smiled and waved as she walked in the opposite direction of the parking lot to her car.
“You too…” I almost forgot to say back.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I made it all the way back to my Jeep Grand Cherokee (Patrice gifted it to me for my 47th birthday last year) and after taking a seat behind the wheel and shutting the door, stared at the orange bottle of pills I’d just been given. My eyes, for some reason, got fixated on seeing my name in capitalized print across the label, then to my date of birth.
When I looked up at the rows of cars lined up across from me, I could still see Mandy making her way to her car, reaching in her purse for her keys, strolling carelessly by in her flowy dress, and her dyed blonde hair dancing in the wind. She was a natural brunette, I remembered, and the only other time she dyed it blonde, from as long as I’ve known her, was when she starred alongside me in The Eight Ball…
Then, a strange phenomenon began to occur. Recalling the events, it was hard to say specifically when each moment overtook me, but by a weird flash, not of light, but brief black-tinted shades of vision, overlapped my eyes, like the switching shutter of a vintage projector, and my brain grew foggier with each passing second. It was like slowly noticing and growing more cognizant of upcoming inebriation, though, I hadn’t had a drink in a little over a year. I was afraid of passing out, but in a moment’s notice, it was suddenly over just as soon as it started, or so it seemed.
Some beats had passed before realizing that my eyes had followed Mandy all the way from her stroll in the parking lot all the way to her car. I’d been staring at her for way too long, I thought. But it was only just that - a thought. I’d compare another time to this sensation almost like when I used to get ‘runner’s high’ when I used to do long-distance running, but it felt as though me, myself, were taking a seat behind the wheel of my conscious, and the rest of my body started driving on autopilot. I suppose that explains why I didn’t take notice of me tossing out the bottle of Trazadone on the overpass not too long after.
Again, it’s hard to say how long the entire thing lasted, but at some point, I made it back home to Patrice in time for dinner that evening.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She was in her study, as usual, typing profusely on her desktop, answering and sending emails back-to-back, with a cup of hot tea on the side.
“Hey, hon,” she greeted.
“Hey.”
“How’d it go?”
“How’d what go?”
“Your appointment with Cromwell?”
“Oh… yeah, it went well.”
“So, what’d he say?”
“Um, he, uh… prescribed me some Trazadone. Said it would help with the sleepwalking. If that’s what it is.”
“Okay, well that’s a good start. When’s your follow-up?”
“Three weeks from now.”
She nodded, then her eyes furrowed at the sight of what I assumed was my attire.
“Did you have that on when you left this morning?” she questioned.
“What do you mean?” I sounded puzzled.
She shrugged. “I coulda sworn you threw on your teal blazer and slacks when you left this morning, not your jeans and leather jacket.”
“It’s just blue, baby.”
“No, it’s teal.”
I scoffed. “You like the blazer better?”
“You look good to me in either one, handsome.”
She shot me a devious smirk, and I shot back a playful wink.
“Let me go grab my pills out of the car, I think I left them.”
“Okay.”
When I got to the car to check, however, I began to wonder just where the hell I put them. Losing little things like keys or cards were normal for me, and Patrice often had fail safes in place for me in the event of it happening, but strangely, I found the brown bag that I’d pulled the bottle out of, but not the bottle.
Recounting my steps, the last thing I could honestly recall was getting in the car after leaving the hospital, and staring at the prescription bottle, confirming that I did indeed pull it out from the bag. All just after I got done talking to Mandy…
I checked under all of the seats to see if it rolled under, but found nothing. Then I checked the trunk, to which there was still no orange bottle, but something else unusual caught my attention. An ever-so-slight hint of greenish-blue glistened in the sunlight over me barely sticking out from the cargo floor, stuffed in the spare wheel tub.
Then Patrice’s voice naggingly echoed in my brain, “It’s teal.”
I lifted the compartment, and there it was. My ‘teal’ blazer and gray slacks, both crunched and sloppily bundled up atop the spare tire. Damn, I just took that to get dry-cleaned last week, too. And then I noticed another color jumbled across the solid tints of teal and gray.
Splatters of newly-dried crimson…
Is that why I changed? Was I bleeding earlier? Surely, I would’ve remembered that…
I went back into the house to meet Patrice in the study.
“Honey, I’m gonna have to drive back to the hospital, I can’t find my-”
When I made it to the doorway, I noticed she wasn’t there. But this time I could hear the TV was turned on, with the volume echoing throughout the house with how loud Patrice must’ve had it. I met her in the living room and saw her standing in front of the screen with her hand clasped over her mouth, eyes liquidated in horror and dread.
“What is it, honey?” I stood next to her.
She said nothing, just stared at the news ahead, and I soon did the same.
Breaking news reported that Mandy Shoemaker, who I’d just seen not too long ago, was found stabbed to death in her home. Her husband, TJ, also a friend to Patrice and I, wasn’t home at the time, and unfortunately had to be the one to find her desolate body sprawled on the living room floor.
Patrice sniffled, and I put my arm around her for comfort.
The news anchor spoke, “It’s still unknown at this time of any prime suspects and as to a motive for the horrific murder of Mrs. Shoemaker, but police have shared a disturbing finding at the crime scene that we presume was left behind by the perpetrator. We do want to warn folks sitting at home or at work, viewer discretion is advised.”
They proceeded to show a partially blurred photo of Mandy’s lifeless body, revealing barely legible blurred letters carved into her torso by the sick fuck. He left behind a message? God…
The news anchors translated the words for us in fine print, as they didn’t want to show the actual photo taken at the crime scene for obvious reasons. When I read what was inscribed into her skin, I felt nauseous, taking my arm from around Patrice.
“‘Til death deliver us from evil, dear Sadie.”
Then I just blankly stared at the screen, and realized I was standing there just as Jonathan was in the nightmare. I could feel his presence looming over me, somewhere in an unseen dimension, his glaring, hellish eyes jeering at me.
Geb Oleander was back, and it seemed he had some unfinished business with me…

Obviously, we know the time skip shows Boruto with Sasuke's gear on, and many are speculating Sasuke be immune even if he isn't confirmed to be.... however something about the way Boruto has been up to this point has me thinking. Of course, we all know the manga/anime tends to mirror the original Naruto and Shippuden series sometimes, and Boruto and Sarada are basically a mirror of each other's fathers. Boruto and Kawaki have swapped lives, and Boruto is essentially Naruto's "killer, " meaning everyone in the leaf (save for a few) will be gunning for him. Since we can rightfully assume Boruto will need to leave the village for a while, it begs the question: Will there be a sort of "Sasuke retrieval" for him? Of course, the circumstances aren't necessarily the same, but just using logic, it would make sense that the leaf would want to capture him if he does try to run. Now in the original retrieval arc, Sakura was stopped by Sasuke from following him, and we know Sarada is immune, so perhaps she helps Boruto escape? What's more, I just, for some reason, have a nagging feeling if the Boruto retrieval happens, it would heavily involve the new gen genin going after him, much like how Naruto and co went after the Sound 4+Sasuke. The new gen genin have been useless and might as well not have been introduced into the series for how unimportant they've been. However, I think that at least some of them could go after Boruto, probably even to kill him if not to bring him back, and Boruto will be forced to resist and maybe fight back (perhaps with the assistance of Sarada?) Perhaps the one and only shining moment for this new generation will be to bring back Boruto, where they use their full power, going all out against a Boruto that is desperately trying not to kill his comrades and possibly letting Momo out (if he even can still get out). I know this theory is all over the place, but it came to me that Boruto might go through what Sasuke did, in the vein of the story mirroring Naruto. I don't know how to factor in how Sasuke may or may not die before or after this time skip, so it's not apart of this theory, but I would be glad to hear what people think about this. Obviously, I don't think all of this will actually happen, but I am inclined to believe that something like this is possible given the trajectory of the story and how it's been up to this point.