The previously bustling crowd returning from lunch lurches to a standstill at the sound of the first strangled cry. In stark contrast to our stillness, we watch helplessly as a woman writhes like a fish on land, her arms bound at her back and biceps capped by strong armed officers dragging her towards the revolving glass front door.

“I couldn’t help it,” her plea echoes throughout the tall glass ceilinged office lobby, “my tail wouldn’t hit the brakes!”

My outward deflation in empathy draws her wild eyes, making me the target of her beseechment, “I was a mermaid!”

Her sobs chop up her next words, “A mer-maid.”

I let my expression reveal my understanding, but that’s all the help I can offer. She’s not the first to fall victim to slipping into a midday nap at work, inadvertently allowing her mind the opportunity to commit crimes, and she won’t be the last forced to pay for doing so.

The officers drag her towards their car that’s parked behind a distinctly fish bowl shaped vehicle. Did she parallel park that in her sleep? Impressive.

The blood spattered sides of the glass, however, are unfortunately pretty incriminating.

We don’t know why our subconscious minds seem determined to destroy our lives. I’ve heard rumors that it hadn’t always been this way – that our ancestors were able to dream freely without repercussions or consequences.

It’s a nice thought, but I just don’t see how that would be possible.

I mean, it’s joked that, centuries ago, some idiot used their last request with a djinn to alruistically wish for everyone’s dreams to come true.

If that’s accurate, I just hope they’re suffering now, wherever they are. Hopefully alongside Isaac Newton for inventing calculus.

The crowd snaps to attention as the officers speed away with the woman from my office in their backseat, onlookers shuffling towards our original destinations as if nothing had interrupted us.

I fall into step but find it more difficult than usual to ignore the injustice that occurred, almost tearing up as I enter the elevator, considering how much the pet fish in the bowl Theresa keeps upstairs are going to miss her.

Like a harbinger of doom, I smell the coffee breath before I hear the voice of the woman beside me & her poor attempt at compassion.

“Theresa was always daydreaming,” Becky sighs more stale coffee into the recycled air of the elevator, “it was only a matter of time.”

My head turns in the awful woman’s direction like a possessed marionette. I’ve always been convinced she was a goblin in a short blond wig, but never moreso until now.

“You’re looking pretty tired, Becky,” I casually offer with a concerned frown, “maybe _you_ should take a nap.”

She gasps with a hand to her chest like I told her to jump off the roof. That would be awful. Her body could seriously hurt someone.

The elevator pings. I stride out while Becky stinks up the small space with her garbled responses.

I nod politely to the parakeet receptionist our boss dreamt into existence a decade ago, her servitude his only penance for the crime. She chirps either a greeting or a curse at me. I can never tell which.

The hedge maze walls of our cubicles feel more foreboding with the reminder of the traps and pitfalls within our own mind, forcing me to feel doubly stuck by the time I finally clock out with an adopted bowl of fish under my arm.

Entering my apartment feels like another cage, and staring vacantly into my fridge full of sauces is just another snare. My eyes light upon a bottle of wine & the pills prescribed to mitigate a wandering mind at rest.

I sigh in relief that dinner is already prepared, but am forced to resign to the fact that the two don’t seem to mix so well when I’m tossing and turning that night.

After giving up reading my book without really seeing the words in all my worry, I relent that I wouldn’t even know how to dream at this point, yet my fear of the possibility is so acute that it’s led to more assessments of my ceiling than the back of my lids.

We’re taught that only evil people dream. That it is purposeful at this point with all the failsafes in place. That dreamers want to create havoc and their mind simply supplies it.

Maybe I most fear the fury that overtook me either. Maybe the idea of being evil doesn’t seem so bad if it’s the opposite of all the impassive people I’ve encountered.

Becky’s wretched features flash to mind at that in a bizarrely vivid image. Her sneer is familiar, but our surroundings aren’t.

Breeze tousles the hairs around my face that have fallen loose from my bun as I scan the panoramic horizon despite the dark of night.

We’re on top of a building.

It’s our work building, based on the view, but I have no idea how we got here.

Well, I don’t much care how _she_ did, but a foreboding sense of knowing has me searching for an immediate exit.

A door pops out of nothingness & disapates in a spray of glitter as if taunting me. Becky screeches, actually cries out like a bird.

I turn to investigate before I can think better of it.

The short stocky woman now has a beak where her vitriolic mouth used to be.

I can’t say it’s not an improvement.

What I’m not a fan of is the green gaseous vapor emanating from her new maw like fog.

That’s going to be a problem. I can just tell.

Her meaty arms, usually raised in accusation, splay at her sides to reveal matching sickly colored feathers adorning them like radioactive wings.

They flail back with her next deafening screech to the sky that is either full of indignation or a battle cry.

I really need to learn how to speak Bird.

In any case, Becky-bird seems to debate between charging me and fleeing for the ledge.

“No, no,” I speak for the first time. My voice sounds muffled like I’ve just left a loud concert.

Becky-bird tilts her grotesque features at me in a hawklike manner.

“I was just angry earlier. I don’t actually want you to jump like I thought,” I lie soothingly.

She considers this for only a moment before barreling toward the edge under the encouragement of my muttered curses.

I’m forced to reconcile in that moment that this might actually be one of those elusive forbidden dreams, & I just know Becky is petty enough to not even try her wings if it’ll implicate me in her literal downfall.

_I have to stop this._

My thought is punctuated by a sudden weight in my hands. I look down & scoff and the bow and arrow there. Why couldn’t I have been reading about people with more foolproof weapons before bed?

But with those characters in mind, I find the bow feeling lighter in my grasp. An arrow summoned from an interdimensional quiver gets nocked, and one of my eyes are laser focused on the demented flailing creature that is thankfully attempting to use its wings to flee.

I almost relent & let her go, but then the bowstring pulls taut by unseen forces moving my body.

Guess we’re really going to take this sucker down right now. It would do no good to either of us for her to continue to exist. I don’t dislike her makeover, but I’m not going down.

Not like this.

Everything comes down to the breeze & my breath in a battle for my fate.

Becky-bird’s movements are erratic but she’s obviously aiming for the next roof over.

So will we.

The sound of my heart thuds in my ears once, twice. The arrow flies.

Even my pulse seems to brace in anticipation.

My mind goes back & forth berating itself in the stretched out second.

_It’s not going to work. _

_It has to._

_An arrow isn’t enough._

_I wish it were a fireball or –_

“Oh!” I cry out as my last thought comes to fruition. My hand raises to block out the blinding light of her immolation.

Without even one last squawk, Becky-bird is turned to ash, but instead of relief, there’s jealousy.

If this is a dream, & it must be, there’s no way I’ll get off as easily as she did.

Shooting awake in my own bed isn’t a relief with the distinct charred smoke smell to my pajamas.

I shower vigorously, feed the poor doubly orphaned fish a little extra, dress in my planned outfit, and place my pajamas & sheets in a trash bag that I carry to the dumpster on the way out to work.

I try to arrive right on time, as always.

What if no one even saw what happened? What if people get away with dreaming everyday without anyone noticing?

I don’t allow myself to get too excited about the idea. The gallows march to work ends sooner than I’d hoped, my body propelled inside by overeager coworkers in the revolving door.

I’ve only just been spat out in the lobby, grumbling under my breath while straightening my skirt, when a voice laced with impatience rumbles above me. “Miss?”

I freeze.

Really? They couldn’t even let me make it upstairs?

I’ll never see that creepy parakeet secretary again.

Worse, now I’ll never get the chance to learn Bird.

I plaster on a placid expression and look up at the two officers staring me down, one is older & obviously needs more coffee. The younger one seems more concerned that we’re blocking the flow of foot traffic.

“You’re the last of your office to arrive,” the older man accuses.

I want to sassily ask if that’s a crime, but he’s armed, so I just blink at him as if I’m an idiot.

I certainly feel like one right now. How have we all been so blind?

After living my whole life without dreaming, this exhilarating trepidation I’m experiencing right now is exactly the way I felt last night.

I’m terrified and electrified.

I honestly hope I’m about to get locked away because now that I can match the sensation in reality, I don’t think I’ll ever stop trying to see where my mind takes us in sleep.

“We’ve asked everyone else already,” the exhausted officer continues, “but you wouldn’t happen to know anything about Rebecca’s disappearance?”

I allow myself to show my confusion. “Rebecca?”

“Becky,” the younger man supplies sweetly.

“Becky’s missing?” I ask, hoping the squeak in my voice sounds like concern. The younger man looks upon me with pity, the older one eyes the coffee cart across the way longingly.

Knew it.

“Yes,” he answers distractedly, “her location last placed her outside of this building in the middle of the night before it died suddenly.”

I gasp. “You don’t think she was…”

The younger one winces like the suspicion of her dreaming is a death sentence. It kind of is.

A woman walks by, wafting the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee over our group, which seems to revitalize the older guy.

“Security tapes show some tension between you and Rebecca on the elevator yesterday. Care to explain?” he asks suddenly.

I instinctively shift into a defensive maneuver that has seen me out of many a traffic ticket. My chin trembles, eyes filling with tears faster than ever before.

“I just thought she needed a nap,” I choke out, “I didn’t think… I’d never….”

The sobs that I dissolve into make the young officer distinctly uncomfortable. The older one watches the woman with the tempting cup of coffee disappear from our sight with a sigh.

“If you’re hiding anything about her disappearance, we will find out,” he threatens halfheartedly.

I turn my wide earnest eyes up at them both & allow another tear to fall, right on cue.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”