Despite the pain and blood, I know none of this is real. Everything that’s happening is in my head so even though more and more envelopes start appearing, some whizzing around the room at dangerous speed, I don’t believe I’m in any danger. I know for certain that this is only a dream but it’s an odd experience. I’m out of my comfort zone but I’m not in the least afraid.
Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the postman. The pile of letters keeps growing and he is panicking. He struggles, his arms flailing. It looks like he’s trying to escape but his feet won’t move; he looks like someone stuck in quicksand. I reach out and try to grab his hand to pull him away but every time I get near, he yanks it away, clawing at the air. All the while, the envelopes continue to fall.
When the pile reaches his stomach, his face grows red as if he’s struggling to breathe. The letters swirl around him, fluttering and flying like some strange vortex or cyclone of post. Soon I can only glimpse flashes of him through the thick cloud of paper. I can certainly hear him, however: he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.
‘It’s only a dream!’ I shout. He doesn’t move; he just goes on screaming. ‘Wake up! This isn’t real!’
I can just make out his head turning towards me. I can’t tell if he sees me or not so I rush forward, waving my arms to create a space so I can pull him out. Half a beat later I’m back in my chair, still throwing my arms wildly in front of me. My heart is thrumming a staccato beat in my chest. It’s over.
I force myself to be still. Then I get up and walk over to the mirror. My hair is mussed up. I feel a faint throb in my cheek and lean in for a closer look; there’s a single bead of blood in the very spot where the envelope struck me. I touch it gingerly.
I can’t stop worrying about the postman. Surely he’s alright; it was all in my head, not his. I gnaw my bottom lip and check the clock. It’s 3.00am.
That’s when I really freak out because all the windows on the ground floor are still open and I’ve been unconscious for more than fifteen hours.
*
It’s comfortingly dark in the wardrobe. The old dresses and even older coats that I’ve not worn in months hang over me like security blankets. The smell is familiar – a tinge of must and flowery fabric softener. In here, I’m safe.
I’ve been counting in my head for hours; when I finally reach ten thousand, I know it must be morning. There’s something I have to do and I can’t do it from in here so I will myself to get up. I picture myself doing it, first standing, then pushing open the door and stepping out. I squeeze my eyes shut as I imagine the movements. It’s only my bedroom. There’s nothing and no one there.
I pinch my fingertips together, circling through each one. Before I know it, I’m standing up and ready to move. I ignore the roar of blood in my ears and take a deep breath. ‘Come on, Zoe,’ I whisper.
As silently as I can, I open the wardrobe door a fraction. Light pours in. I blink and open it a little further. I can see my bedspread and part of the far wall. So far so normal.
The Chairman is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me with his large green eyes. He purrs, stretches and stands up. I give him a small smile. ‘Were you guarding me?’ I ask. He meows in response and I scratch him under the chin. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I know I promised I wouldn’t do that again.’ He butts his head against me. I sigh. Is talking to your cat a sign of madness? Because dreams that are so vivid they seem real certainly are.
I look at the bedside clock. It’s later than I thought and I don’t want to miss him. Unless there’s another parcel for me – which is unlikely – the postman will simply push any post through the letterbox. If I don’t have any letters today, it’ll be even harder to get hold of him.
I swallow the last vestiges of my fear and go down to the front door. When I don’t see anything through the spyhole I think I’m too late but barely a minute later the postman’s red van appears around the corner.
I start unbolting, leaving only the main lock still fastened. The postman disappears out of view as he leaves the van and goes to the neighbour on my left. I hold my breath, hoping there will be a letter for me today. The prospect of standing on my porch and calling after him is about as appealing as stripping naked and running through the town square with a tea cosy on my head. Fortunately my luck holds and he emerges from behind the oak tree and walks down my path. I wait until he’s a few feet away before I open the final lock and stick my head out of the door.
He’s obviously surprised, pausing in mid step and blinking at me. He recovers quickly though and waves a single brown envelope in the air. I feel a flicker of trepidation but I force myself to focus on his face instead. Rather than the tired visage I saw in my dream, he appears relaxed and more youthful. He’s clearly none the worse for wear. I open the door fully and try to stay calm.
‘Good morning!’
I move my mouth into the shape of a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine and dandy.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
He gives me a funny look. ‘Um, yes, thank you. Just the one letter for you today.’