The Secret Life of Nate Mitty (dream)

(Some strange things pop into your head, when you’re halfway between here and the neverland.)

It was dark. There were charcoal-gray bars on the windows. It didn’t look like a whorehouse. They all hung their heads down, their long ratted hair hiding their faces. One sat on the top of an upright piano to my right. The cell—the room—was too small for a piano. She looked at me.

“Lauren?”

She slid off the piano, and gingerly stepped, leaning forward.

“Oh, God no. Not you.”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t.”

She walked toward me, and I cradled her greasy head in my arms. She shook as she cried. The hint of a tear gleamed in my eye.

“It ends tonight. Either he or I will die tonight,” I said, clenching my teeth. My hands on her head were leathery, and oil stained.

She tipped her head upward, and I saw one eye through the ratty hair. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

“Funny,” I replied. “That’s what I say too.”

I kissed her on the head and then let go. She curled her knees close as she crouched into the corner.

With grit on my chin, I stepped to the door. I rested my palms on the butts of two silver, flint-lock pistols tucked at my side. Then I kicked the door open with my boot and stepped outside.





Want more? Here’s another dream.