Last night, I helped murder a girl.
In my dreams.
I was at a party, talking and laughing away. I am with a group of friends, no one I can recognize from real life except one. We were sitting in somebody’s drawing room. Food and drinks on the table. The place was a mess, which meant that the party had been on for some time. I remember being shocked at the fact that two people who I couldn’t picture together in the same frame were having an affair, an extra-marital affair. Everybody was cool about it except me. Before I could feel bad about it, the dreamt goes into scene two.
A few friends had brought their teenage daughters with them to the party. One was called Sarika. I don’t remember what the other’s name was. Sarika’s sister started to feel unwell. She is sent to a room and a man with a yellow formal shirt, holds her to make her feel better. I told everyone, “Oh, she’ll be fine!” The next time I asked Yellow Shirt, “How is she?”, he looked at me and in a deadpan voice, and said, “She is dead.” I start panicking then. I am frantic. People around me start panicking as well. There is fear in the air. No one knows what to do. So I tell everyone that it’s okay, we didn’t kill her. Even as I say that, I know it’s untrue. I just helped kill a girl by denying her timely medical attention. My heart starts pounding to what feels like a million beats a second. And then I start planning the cover up. My brain works out the details. (We will tell the police no one knew she was unwell etc.) Finally, it arrives at a snag in the plan. A simple post mortem report will reveal the time of the death. We can’t lie about that.
I feel so guilty that I wake up.