The Burning Secret

There’s this reoccurring dream. It started back when I first got the house and the money. Looking back, it wasn't much, but enough to matter. Plus, looking around this place, it's chock-full of memories. My favorite has to be right here in the kitchen. A little tot was lifted up by dad and sat on the quartz countertop to eat some grilled cheese sandwiches. The smile on that little ones face, that feeling is unforgettable.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. The money I received was a mystery to many. Honestly, I still can’t believe it. One morning I woke up and there it was. Twenty thousand dollars had cleared into the bank overnight. The house came shortly after. There were a few who knew about the money and the house that said I deserved it. However, a majority thought less of me.

“It should have been me!”

“That brat doesn't deserve it!”

“We all know what happened.”

I learned a lot about myself and those around me over the following months. I don't talk to them anymore. I haven't seen them in ages. Though I can still see their envy clear as the hot cup of coffee before me now.

Who wouldn't want this? Still, I ask myself why. Did I not deserve it? I wonder what price I will pay for it, and when the time to pay will come. Enough time has already passed, and yet the dream is all that gives me grief.

I’m laying in bed and it must be 3am. I don’t know why I know it’s that time, I just do. I have this sleep sound, it plays the sounds of rain as I drift off, or at least try to. Other than that, the house is empty.

At first it all seems normal, like one of those dreams that feels like reality even after you wake. The kind that makes you question yourself. A dream that feels so real that it's stored as a memory and years later you struggle to know the difference between that dream and some random day anymore. Once I start to pay attention though, that’s when it becomes obvious I've fallen asleep.

There are illuminated black and white stripes on the bedroom wall. I can barely see them at first, but like a camera focusing in, my eyes adjust and the horizontal beams of light appear. They’re coming from headlights shining through the window blinds. It’s not just one car though, my entire street is cluttered with cars coming and going as if it was rush hour: not three in the morning. Oddly enough, I can't hear the sound of their engines or tires. All I see are the lights.

The sleep sound isn’t plugged in. The sound of rain is coming from outside. However, it still sounds recorded, like it’s not real.

And the house isn’t empty.

It should be though.

As I make my way down the stairs, there isn’t a sound. The boards that often creak are hushed and my calloused toes don’t thud. Through the windows of the darkened house, I realize the headlights have stopped beaming in. The sound of rain has been replaced with silence. All that's left is a sense of unease, of being watched, of inevitability.

Each step across the cold hardwood floor leads me closer to the living room window. With each step my heart beats stronger, yet slower: the pressure growing within my head. Behind this window, not too far in the distance, is the neighbors’ home. A similar sight can be seen through a few other windows downstairs, each viewing a different neighboring house.

Every one of those neighbors has a solitary light on. Each light is located in a room that faces a window in my house. Within each light stands a neighbor, staring at me. The most unsettling part is that none of them are actually my real neighbors. Your dreams often fill blank faces with those lodged deep in your memory. This dream holds that truth particularly well.

The neighbors are waiting on me. They’re staring, motionless, expressionless: faces illuminated by a dim light.

They're waiting for me to open it.

Forlorn and weathered, the little black book sits on my couch, inviting me. I’ve tried to burn it countless times. I hate reading what’s inside, but I have to. I want nothing less, but I need nothing more. In the dream everything is reversed from normal life, yet it all feels too surreal.

They’re still waiting.

Turning the leather bound cover, I see the pages, antiquated and fragile. Each piece is meticulously detailed with wishes. There aren't many, but after each wish comes a name, sometimes multiple. Names that are lodged deep away in my subconscious. These are the names of family members I once knew, but family they no longer are.

The names haunt me.

In my dream I’m not the person I am today. As I look back up to the neighbors, their lights have gone out. I can nearly make out my own reflection in the window now. In the glass I see my younger self. The me that was broke and desperate. The me that had no remorse. The me who didn’t understand how the only child, now orphaned, would be left with nothing. The orphan who didn't know why the one who raised me would give everything to the strangers of the family. The strangers who hadn't seen the paperwork. The strangers who would never know what I was about to do.

It was early in the morning. It had to be close to 3am. The papers were secured in a little black book. They had not been made official yet, but the message was sound and could easily hurt me.

I remember being woken up by headlights shining into my hotel room. That and the passing thunderstorm too. It was the airport hotel, so it was rather lively, even in the first hours of the day. The rain was thick enough to mute the sounds of passing cars, but their lights were still blinding.

I was flying out soon to escape the harassment of my family. The same family that never cared for me before. It was clear I couldn't simply hold on to the papers or hide them any longer. I had no other choice.

I burned the papers.

I’ll burn them again...

And again...

In each and every dream since, I burn that little black book. However, I don't do it for the same reason I did all those years ago. Still, the book always comes back to haunt me when I dream. It's now near nightly. The faces look in from neighboring homes. They don't speak, yet silently call out for me. Even if I close the blinds I'm not alone. I should be, but the book keeps me company: beckoning for another read.

Deep down, some of those strangers know the truth, but there's no proof. Some spent years accusing me of it, but again, there's no proof. Others seemingly don't care, but apparently I do. At least I still have all the memories in this house. Like when I was a child eating a grilled cheese sandwich in this kitchen. It was pure, I was innocent. In a way that makes it feel a little less empty. Still, when I wake up I'm all alone. I shouldn't be alone. If only I wasn't young and selfish, then this mystery wouldn't envelop my life.

Money and a house isn’t worth the guilt, but I can never admit the truth out loud. The money isn't a mystery, it never has been. I burned the little black book: I burned the will.