Remembering Sunday

The bottle tumbled out of his hand, he cursed under his breathe. Dark circles under his eyes hinted at the fact that he hadn't slept much in the past couple weeks, however, there was also nothing he longed for more than the sweet relapse of sleep. He was complete wreck, a complete mess, the couch he was laying in had faded in the imprint where he sat, at least if you looked very closely. He couldn't remember the last time he got up, except to get another drink or use the bathroom. Flies buzzed around day old pizzas that had a slice taken out of them, mold was growing on old fast food, still left in the bag. The smell could most likely have been known, had cold, winter and fresh air not seem to covered it up. His body was slumped on the couch, his eyes were dilated and his hair a mess. He didn't know the last time he had showered. He just sat there, drunk, unknowingly, lost of all life that had happen in the past months that he seldom showed his face outside. Outside, neighbors could see the bills piling up in his mailbox, the letter on the door that stated his house was going to repossed. 1

The only thing running through his mind was the first time he saw her, sure, in a dream, but a dream that meant the world to him. A dream that led him on a search, a dream he had on a Sunday night. It was a vision that showed him the girl that his heart desired, longed for. It was in these dreams that he began to live, she was everywhere and she seemed to haunt him. The thing that had bothered him so much was the fact that she had seemed so real.2

Her voice was so sultry, seductive. "Come with me," she'd say in a hushed whisper, she'd tug at his hand, tug at his shirt... as real as it all felt, it never was. She was just a girl trapped in his head, his mind, all part of a dream.3

Her hair was as black as night and her eyes as blue as the sky, they all seemed to suck him in as whirlpools of water, swirling, and hypnotizing. Her clothes swirled around her body like clouds. It was funny, the way the wind always seemed to blow, but they never got cold.4

Back in reality, the phone was ringing off the hook now, in a home that had begun to go to Hell. Messages left on answering machine rang out like broken records. "Derek? Derek? I'm worried, where are you?" "Mr. Whitchin, we're calling you about why you haven't been in work for the past two days, please call us back at the office." "Derek, I think you should pick up the phone, I'm worried... Derek?" "Hey. Just seein' what's up? Want to go to a club tonight?" "D - Man, you can't throw everything away over something as dumb as this. Call me, we need to talk." "Got us some dates with some hott blondes, come over." Of course, many of these were old, but they seemed to replay over and over again in his mind. Was this that dumb? Waiting for a ghost to appear, something to happen. No one called anymore. Derek Whitchin disappeared from the face of the Earth. He no longer existed.5

Four months ago, the dreams had started. At first, one would play them off as dreams full of lust, fantasy that could only be explained as the mind of a man would. ...but something happened, the way she spoke to him, the way she held onto him when she was scared, how she laughed, and flipped her hair. "I need you," she would say, "I need you to help me..." The words haunted him, but only made him hold her closer. As time went on, he couldn't help but mention her to co - workers and friends.6

Mike Lawrence was such a friend. "Sounds hott," he'd laugh, "nice little sex dreams, but that's all it'll ever be. Wish I could have one."7

"It's different," was Derek's reply. "something is so different. It's so real."8

"Whatever man, let's go out... unless you want to go back to bed," Mike would laugh and then throw his cigarette into the grass. Mike hated people, even him smoking in his car, hated smoking in his house. He was the sinner of the habit, but hated the smell. As if he was ashamed, but flaunted it all at the same time. It didn't matter, no matter how much he could run away from the smell, it would still be there. In his hair, on his breath, on his shirts.9

Derek would go out and party at first, but he only went back to bed. He had to sleep, had to dream, had to see her face again. He had to feel her touch, had to kiss her, had to... be with her. 10

One morning. Derek had figured it out. He had to draw her, she had to be out there somewhere, she had to be alive, she had to have been calling out to him. With pencils and markers he quickly sketched her, her dark, flowing hair and aqua eyes. Big lips and thin eyebrows, small hands, and a tiny waist. She was dancing, oh, how that girl could dance. Her body swayed in the wind, so surreal, so beautiful. Hair swirled around her, her face was wrapped in the clouds. He was obsessed, obsessed with a fantasy. A fantasy that didn't even have a name.11

He placed her picture on the walls of businesses and on telephone polls. The phone didn't ring for weeks, but one day, and one call is all it takes, the phone rang concerning the girl that dreams were made of. "Mr. Whitchin, I know this girl. I know her. She lived next to me a couple years ago, she moved though. She doesn't live there anymore."12

Hearts pounding, so hard you could hear it through the receiver in his oxygen intake. "Tell me, I need to know. I need to find her."13

"Not sure where," the woman said, "but I have a name."14

“I know her name,” Derek told his friends, “I want to ask her to marry me. I’m going to find her. She’s out there somewhere, somewhere.” He would pull out her picture, the ones he drew. “Have you seen her? This beautiful girl, have you seen her? I need to know her…”15

Raine Winters. Oh, such a gorgeous name, fitting her face. She was a Raine to his mind, a Raine on is thunderstorms that clung in her mind. The name of the girl he loved. Grasping the phone book, the pages couldn't flip fast enough. He knew she was real, he knew he had seen her before. "Raine, Raine," he muttered, "please help me find you."16

Finally, when all hope seemed lost, there she was. Her name in bold letters on the paper in the phone book read like a miracle of fresh, fallen snow on the day of a heat wave. He quickly dialed the number. “Hello?” came the voice. He breathed into the mouth piece. Not in a scary way, but in one that came with relief. 17

“Raine?” 18

“No, this is her sister…” 19

Heart fell, felt like he was about to hit rock bottom. However, he still had hope. She was still there out there. She was somewhere, she was real, she wasn’t a dream. She was calling to his mind, his whole being. He loved her.20

“Is she there?” The words stumbled out.21

“We need to talk,” came the other voice, “how soon can you get here?”22

Not fast enough, the car couldn’t go fast enough. Foot to the pedal, pedal didn’t go down far enough. “Wherever you are,” he whispered as the rain began to fall, “I will find you. I need you.” Rain pelted down on the windshield, wipers squeaking against the glass. The house was in sight. She had walked these very steps, talked on this very place, as he came into the driveway.23

A girl stood on the porch. It wasn’t Raine, they looked similar. It was her sister, she beckoned him inside. “Here, here,” she said, “come in.”24

He couldn’t walk fast enough. “I’m here.”25

“How did you know her?” she lead him inside, pictures of Raine, the girl from his dreams filled the home. It didn’t matter if she was with friends. 26

His hands fell onto the picture’s glass. His hand stayed there, he stared back at the still frame of her face. A piece of time captured in a small space. “She’s so beautiful. I love her.”27

The sister sighed. “Hard to now, isn’t it? I love her too…” Raine’s sister’s voice trailed off. 28

“She’s been going through my mind, there in my head, there in my dreams. I need her. I need her to live, to breathe; I want her to marry me.” His eyes locked with Raine’s in the picture. Blue, just like he remembered them.29

“Yeah…” her sister put her hand on his shoulder. “Raine is dead. Three and a half months ago… a Sunday.”30

His eyes snapped to the sister’s. “What?” he breathed, “No.”31

“You didn’t know?” The sister asked. “But…” She reached out, but he was out of the door. 32

The rain was pouring harder now and Derek did not care that his hair was wet, his leather coat was ruined, or his clothes may be soaking. “No!” he yelled. “No!” The world felt like it was spinning, he looked up into the rain, it seemed so strong, so sad. Tears fell down his face, but it could never be made out. He fell to his knees, head faced upward. Something about this was so familiar, he couldn’t understand, couldn’t make sense. He was so close, this was the closest to her he’d ever get.33

“Wait!” the voice screamed, the sister falling over herself out of the window. She raced out into the rain, but Derek had already stumbled into his car. “Wait!” the sister called. Her hair stuck to her face from the wet. “Wait! It was you. I knew it, it had to be you…”34

Derek had made his way to the liquor store, he had sat at home. He had isolated himself form his family, friends, work, food, and normal activities. A half month after he received the bitter news, he sat there at his house. The clock read early, early morning. His eyes were dreary; she still visited his dreams if he slept well. He didn’t want to sleep though, as it hurt him enough to just think of her after such a dream. She was no longer there, no longer alive.35

Days passed, a car pulled up the driveway of Derek Whitchin’s home. A letter in hand, the sister of Raine Winters finds herself walking up his walkway. “Wait!” she calls out, pounding on the door. No answer. She does this for minutes before walking in. The smell is overwhelming, she plugs her nose. Derek is strung across the couch, eyes open, not moving. She stops short. He’s dead, she doesn’t have to check. She swallows the lump in her throat and drops the note as she runs out of the house and calls the cops.36

It’s not a crime scene; it’s negligence of one’s self. Yet, the police are still, are always involved. What are the thoughts of one, as he finds the fallen note? As he reads it through his mind, his thoughts a swirl and he can’t make sense of all the things, the mystery that surrounds the story, the note, the pictures, and the home.37

My dearest,38

Perhaps you do not know me.39

…but something is calling me, calling me to your mind.40

I see your face everywhere I go. I saw you once at the store.41

I think that it was love at first sight, but I never saw you again.42

I’m forced to write a note, a note to a stranger that I’ll never meet.43

I’m dying, there’s nothing to do. What can I do, but tell you how I feel about you?44

I feel foolish, a man I don’t know, yet I feel so close.45

You’re running through my mind, but I want to move on, but yet, I can’t.46

I never once believed in love, until I saw you.47

You danced in my dreams, yet, I never got a name.48

I love you. 49

Once I’m gone, I’m never coming back.50

I’m scared, I’m terrified, it rains every day it seems, every day I think about you.51

I’ll always be with you, watching you.52

Just so you know, I’m there, just so you know, that even in death,53

even in death, we’ll still know we’re there.54

Raine.55

A drawing fell from the note, the police officer bent to pick it up. The lines were faded, smudged, but it was easy to see, that it was a portrait of Derek Whitchin. His eyes dropped and looked over the scene. He didn’t know what it all meant, he didn’t know the man’s thoughts or even this woman’s. …but he knew that perhaps it was something to long for, something to want.