Monday morning, 6AM Red light was glowing through my room, it was the only thing visible that time of day. The blinds were shut, the lights off, the sun was in rotation and the moon half full. A silence hung in the room, covering the area with peace. Every now and then the light blinked and changed It had gone so for minutes, maybe hours. Until a predetermined time of day when the silence of night changed into the hysteria of morning. The light blinked, it changed, for the last time that night. The next time it did; it would be morning. The silence broke. A buzzing sound pierced my ear, skull and dream. I shook my head to wake my closed eyes. ‘Sleep is always too short’ I thought. I moved each of my fingers individually before making a fist. Two of knuckles cracked when I clenched my fist tightly. The muscles in my lower arm were tense, releasing an ever-growing desire for physical strength. My hand moved to the alarm’s snooze button, blind, effortlessly, unconscious; for it was a move I mastered. The sounds stopped, and the room resumed its silence. My alarm might have woken up the birds outside, they began chirping that morning. Slowly my eyelids opened. The red lighting propelled itself into my pupil, waking me ever so slowly. I blinked once, twice, looked at the alarm and realized; It’s time. It took a mere moment for my brain to announce I had dreamed that night! Some bits of a story were there, others were lost, some weren’t even remembered. They all faded fast. I remembered a stairway, it had a countless number of steps. There were two others, five steps above me, looking down and straight into my eyes. Both of them looked alike, and in some way, they reminded me of my father and an old friend of mine. It must have been two years since I last saw either of them. When my father left my mother, it broke her. Seeing what his actions did to her made me break contact with him, but that is a story for another time. Coming to speak of it, I had not called my mother in a while either. ‘I should call her today’ I thought, with half a brain. My friend was someone I grew up with. We always met at a carnival near the old house my mom and dad used to live in, when they were still together. We met in the line of the river-slide ride. He showed me his collection of trading cards and asked me about my hobbies. We were both no younger than eight years old. He concluded I was all right and asked me on a play date. My father disapproved my newly acquired friend. No questions could be asked about his measurements, for he knew better. Sometimes I snuck out of my parents’ house to meet him at the corner of the street; where the streetlamps were broken, and the cars slowed down. I wondered for days and days on end what my life would look like if I had a friend by my side while growing up; a friend that My father would approve of, that is. I still catch myself thinking about it, on dark days. Never are these thoughts any good, or productive, they just come and go without warning. Usually I push them away to deal with at another, more convenient, time.