Julian Torres desperately kicked away his blanket appearing like a maniac riding an invisible bicycle while on his back. With a quick twist, he rolled off the side of his bed and simultaneously jabbed his hand under his pillow and snatched out a black handgun before his bare back slammed against his small bedside dresser. In a squatted position, pointing the weapon at the ceiling, he felt the thumping of his heart and tried to control his breathing by exhaling through his nose. He reached back awkwardly with his right hand to find the small chain of the dresser lamp. His forearm knocked over a plastic cup of water and his fingers wiggled frantically in the darkness a moment before he felt the chain. An instant later, a diffused yellow light illuminated the bedroom.
The weapon felt heavy in his trembling hands as his widened eyes steadily searched the area above. Observing only the ceiling fan, with the tip of the gun barrel following his every gaze, he abruptly leveled his aim as he cautiously scanned the remainder of his bedroom. The bookshelf near the window, the computer desk with the Macintosh on it, the floor to ceiling window with its long gray vertical blinds and his walk-in closet, all appeared normal. His breathing and pounding heart began to slow and settle into a steady rhythm when it appeared there was nothing out of the ordinary occurring. Only then, did he finally lower the weapon and sigh as he scratched the back of his head. Could he have made a mistake? Maybe it was just a vivid nightmare. No, he was certain he was awake when he witnessed two dark corners appear to come alive, move across the ceiling surface, merge together and zigzag down toward him like a black, slithering serpent. There was a vague memory of its appearance before, years ago, during childhood, a memory long since forgotten. There were also odd bodily sensations he could not explain and the concern that someone had found a way to enter his home. Being so, he felt compelled to purchase the double-action, semi-automatic weapon at his side. He observed its sleek black design with the word BERETTA etched into the side of it, he then abruptly looked away and shook his head. The entire incident had taken about two minutes, but it seemed much longer. He could hear the bathroom faucet was dripping and was surprised because it seemed to echo loudly. He rubbed his stubbled chin and took hold of the weapon again, feeling the solid weight and coolness of the metal. What the hell am I doing with such a dangerous thing? He believed someone had been in his home a few times before when he found drawers and cabinets open, when he knew he closed them. On another occasion, he awoke in the morning to hear his front door gently close as if someone was attempting to enter or leave his home. However, when he hurried over to catch the intruder, there was no one there. Strangely, nothing was ever stolen and if the trespasser had meant to do him any harm, there had been plenty of opportunities for it. Therefore, he felt there was no other explanation except the possibility that either he was facing an early dementia or he was sleepwalking. Moreover, the reappearance of the ceiling shadows did not exactly help matters. His superstitious grandfather had called the shadows a visitation from the Angel of Death but a well-intentioned friend said it was more likely a visit of schizophrenia. He shook his head and thought maybe schizophrenia was not that far from the truth. More likely, he was just getting the creeps from living alone for more than eight months. Long enough to get stir crazy? Whatever the problem was, he knew he could no longer ignore it and he frowned realizing he might actually have to see a doctor or a specialist of some kind. He didnt know how much it would cost, but he was certain it would add yet another debt to his list. His introduction to debt began with an early marriage as a twenty-two-year-old and seven years later, after his divorce, he thought he would still know debt at his deathbed as an old man, although at that age, he would not have to worry about it anymore. He relaxed enough to realize he was still sitting on the wet carpet, he also noticed the bathroom sink had oddly stopped dripping. After tossing the Beretta onto the bed, he paused to examine the damp area of his fitted dark blue boxers and sighed, What a night. Entering the bathroom, he yawned as he flipped the light switch, briefly walking with his eyes closed, directly to the toilet. A moment later, when he turned to the sink, he gasped at the site of various triangular pieces of mirror scattered everywhere on the white sink. He stared incredulously, almost in a daze of disbelief, and noticed the brunt of the damage appeared as a centered white spot on the large mirror with a multitude of cracks branching outward like an intricate spider web. Abruptly, he backed away from the sink, hurried over to grab the gun off the bed, released the safety catch on it and quickly went about checking the front and back doors as well as all the windows of the house. The doors were locked and although not every window was securely locked, they were all closed tight and no valuables appeared to be missing. He soon returned to his room and placed the weapon under his pillow again.
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