What kind of person has recurring dreams about killing all of his friends? The slumberous massacre I committ each night was beyond what I have read about or seen in slasher movies. These images are coming from somewhere else. They are coming from me. I am creating these deaths.

If I can get out of bed in the morning (I am averaging two or three hours of sleep at this point), I stop for breakfast before coming in late to work. For the past three months I have wanted to ask the girl who makes my coffee every morning on a date. I think I have the balls to do it today, but as soon as I open my mouth, I imagine what it would be like if she was at the end of a stainless steel long-reach machete. “Thank you,” I mutter as I leave, embarrassed and unsettled. It’s pathetic. And I am sure that after this interaction, I will have a sleepless night again.

Molly looked at her mother’s visage, already beading with sweat despite the defensive powdering, and wondered how the two could possibly be related. She fingered the scab on her left knee, then caressed the bruise below, swelling her shin. Several barrettes restrained her scraggily hair while adjacent to her, her mother’s bold hat complimented her shiny, abiding locks.

Mrs. Beaufort slid forward and lifted her gloved hand to the stop line. As the bus slowed, she stood, taking her daughter and purse in hand. They descended the stairs at the back of the bus. Molly stood on the curb, scratching her elbow as her mother smoothed the front of her tailored navy blazer and matching skirt. Abruptly, she took Molly’s hand and walked north on Lincoln, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her other hand clutching her purse.

“Mom,” Molly began, “Why are we walking so fast?” Her mother’s heels clipped in rhythm to her heart. She glanced down at her daughter, who had bloodied her arm while attacking the mosquito bite.

“For the love of-honestly, Molly. Can’t you maintain yourself for five whole minutes?” Molly looked at her sneakers as her mother bent down, tissue in hand, to wipe away the blood. She couldn’t help it that the bugs liked the way she tasted! Her eyes met her mother’s during the rough wipe down, and she in them saw a mixture of determination and fear. “Let’s keep moving, now.”