The first thing I think when I start waking up is that I feel much more rested than I should, and the second is why is it so bright?
Immediately after this thought, I sit up with a start, looking around my room for signs of change. To my relief, everything is exactly as I remember. It was just a bad nightmare—very bad, in fact. I shudder a bit remembering the sensations I felt; it's not something I'd like to experience again.
And speaking of emotions, even though it wasn't mentioned, recalling the dream reminds me of this topic, so bear with me. Cough-cough, I clear my throat to get my own attention, which might seem a bit odd since I'm the only one aware of my thoughts.
Returning to the topic of emotions, I feel much more energetic than before. Even when I slept almost an entire day on a Sunday after working extra hours on Saturday, I didn't feel like this. I also feel happier and more alive, as if these feelings have been returned to me after years of their absence. It's a somewhat overwhelming sensation, to be honest; it has left me a bit disoriented.
Anyway, still a bit shaken, I reach for my phone and turn it on to check the time. After doing so, I pull my hand away, murmuring an "off" in pain and surprise; my phone seemed to be burning. Upon closer inspection, I realize my situation with annoyance and irritation that outweigh my newfound positive feelings, thinking about the problems this will cause.
My phone appeared to be scorched. Its screen, once almost black, now had a large black smudge covering almost the entire thing, very noticeable. Additionally, there were traces of smoke coming from it. What the hell could have caused this? Did a damn lightning strike it? Unlikely, since my bed is positioned facing the window, and considering I sleep with my head towards it, I would have been the first to be fried, plus it isn't broken.
By the position of the sun, it's already past noon. My window faces east, and since I can't see it, I'm confident in my hypothesis, which is a problem since I should be at work by seven in the morning. It looks like I'll have to get that sick note for at least a week, maybe call in that favor and owe another one to my neighbor. Ugh, what a hassle. Well, at least if I pretend to be sick, I won't have to face those corporate goblins. Yay, I guess? I'm starting to feel more positive at least, now that my irritation is subsiding.
I head to the kitchen after a shower to clear my head—clear only in the expression sense because the shower was hot. I put on a slightly warmer outfit; it's colder today, strangely, even with such strong sunlight coming through the windows. Or maybe it's just my apartment; it's not very well insulated, so it's always a bit colder. With another mental thanks for my apartment being back to what I remember, I head to the kitchen and, hmm, there should be some leftover pasta.
I start grabbing the things I need to cook, but freeze a bit when my hand reaches the fridge. I feel a drop of sweat trickling down the side of my face and my lips suddenly dry as I stare at the fridge door, still prepared to open it. It seems that even after being awake for a few minutes, that nightmare is still affecting me. I can vividly recall every detail of it, even though I should be starting to forget it. I hope it's not another recurring dream.
Shaking my head a bit to clear these thoughts, I force myself to open the fridge door. It's childish to be afraid of doing something because of a nightmare, especially something as simple as this. There's no one around to point out that I opened the door while turning my face to the side and closing my eyes, but I didn't do that.
After two seconds of feeling only the slightly cold air from inside the fridge, I relax and start grabbing what I need. "Ahaha, what an idiot, it was just a dream," I laugh and say to myself with a tone of mockery, even though the drop of sweat still remains on my face. Still, I begin cooking. I really crave some good homemade food to calm my nerves, or the best I can manage, at least.
You know, I don't consider myself a great cook, but I'm sure I'm at least decent, and this goes for my food. Normally it's decent, but today it was really good. I was surprised; maybe all this new positivity is affecting my perception of the world.
Which is worrying, if I suddenly stop feeling disdain for some people I know, I'll be concerned.
After this maybe lunch/early dinner, I prepare to go out. I put on a small jacket and some slightly looser pants. I don't know how long I'll be out, so I think it's best to be prepared.
As I leave my apartment, I'm glad I decided to wear warmer clothes. It's a bit cold, so it was a good call on my part. I locked the door and went out to the street. I don't really have a set destination, so I think I'll go wherever my legs take me. I don't intend to go too far, but I can walk for a while at least.
I walk for two or three streets when I spot a small corner bar. I think it's better to buy a bottle of water if I'm going to be out for a while. The place doesn't seem too crowded, and considering the time and that it's the middle of the week, it's completely understandable. People in places like this at this time during the week are either retired, unemployed, or work at different hours and days.
By the way, while walking, I noticed it's already 1:43 PM. It's not a bad time, honestly, but I thought it would be earlier, around 3 PM. Maybe it's because of the temperature; it's too sunny to be this cold.
The place isn't very big; it has about five tables, each with four plastic chairs. The counter stretches from one wall to the other, with a small entrance and a small wooden door on the left, attached to the wall. Half of the counter is wooden and reaches chest height, while the other half is a display case, the kind you'd see in a bakery, somewhat filled with snacks. Behind the counter, there are two refrigerators—one smaller with non-alcoholic drinks and another larger with alcoholic beverages. The floor is covered with light gray tiles, a bit worn and dirty, and the walls are brick with a faint white paint. There are some signs scattered on the walls related to drinks, along with newspapers and other generic bar decorations. The ceiling is made of large gray tiles, with three wooden beams that may or may not just be decorative; I wouldn't know. The bar's lights are mounted on the beams. There are also two TVs, maybe twenty inches, not very large, showing a soccer game. I don't know which teams are playing and honestly don't care. I don't have time or interest in that sport.
There were three employees in the place. One of them was sweeping a corner near a table on the left; he looked young, no more than 20 years old. Another was fiddling with the alcohol fridge; like the first, he was young, but this one seemed to be at least 25, from what I could tell. The last one was managing the cash register, which was in the corner of the wooden counter. He appeared to be at least 30 years old, had dark skin, short black hair, and wore a plain brown shirt with an open black jacket. I couldn't see the rest of his outfit. He had a relaxed posture, leaning on the counter with one hand propping up his head and the other arm stretched out across the counter. There were two older customers drinking at one of the tables, but I'll focus on them.
As I reach the counter, one of the TVs is freezing up a bit, and the other one has turned off. They don't look old, but maybe they are because they've been cleaned recently. The employee who was arranging the fridge starts heading toward the TV that turned off to fix it, and the employee at the register straightens up to assist me.
"Good afternoon, I'd like a still water, please," I say. I honestly can't speak in a casual manner normally; it's something the orphanage caregivers taught us, and it's been useful for work, so I've never seen a reason to change.
The employee seems a bit surprised by the formal way of speaking from someone as young as me, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Sure thing, buddy, that'll be four reais," he says in a deep, somewhat hoarse but friendly voice. He seems like a nice guy, perfect for making customers feel at ease. It works, by the way.
As I'm leaving, I can hear the other two employees talking. "Man, I thought the TVs would last longer, at least another year without issues," the one who was sweeping says. "That's what Roger said, but it's strange. There didn't seem to be anything wrong while I was fixing it," the other replies.
I could have stayed longer to listen, but it's none of my business. I already have what I need, so I just continue walking.
I walk a few more streets until I reach a small newsstand. It's been a while since I last visited one of these. Sometimes when we were kids, the orphanage caregivers would take us to pick something out. It was a rare treat, but it was nice. Well, I guess it doesn't hurt to feel a bit nostalgic, so I'll take a look.
In front of the stand, there's an elderly man sitting in a red plastic chair, holding a beer can. He must be around 50 years old, judging by his appearance. He's wearing a plain red shirt, old shorts, and brown sandals. On his head, he has sunglasses and a somewhat crumpled gray cap. He doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the cold.
While I'm browsing through some magazines, my gaze occasionally drifts to the man. Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself asking, "Aren't you feeling cold, or are you just used to it?"
He lazily turns his head to look at me better and, after taking a sip of his beer, responds, "The weather forecast said it would be warm today, around 26 degrees at least. I didn't come prepared for the cold. I can't go back and leave the stand unattended, and complaining doesn't help," he says in a deep but lazy voice, shrugging his shoulders and turning his gaze back to the street, where he watches people and cars passing by.
This is new information. I frown. "They rarely get it wrong by such a large margin. What could have happened?" He lets out a sigh and curls his lips while replying, "How would I know, kid? Are you going to buy something?" He seems annoyed, probably because of the cold.
"No, I was just taking a look. I don't have money for anything anyway," I reply. I can't see his eyes, but I'm sure he rolled them. "You should go anyway; it's getting dark and might get colder." I give him a wave goodbye, which he responds to by taking another sip from his can. A nice old man, indeed.
After almost an hour of walking back to my apartment, I feel a shiver down my spine, a premonition that something might happen. It could be my first warning at work, but not a resignation. The orphanage staff wouldn't come looking for me, and I'm sure none of my neighbors would be problematic enough to cause this feeling.
Except for Paulo, but that guy makes everyone uncomfortable; he's just weird that way. Still, there would be no reason for him to visit me.
I hope not.
I'm scared of him, okay? But everyone is, so give me a break.
While having these thoughts, I find myself standing in front of my apartment door, already unlocked. Alright, unfortunately, the only weapon I might have is my keys, and even though the best course of action would be to call the police, I don't even care to try because, honestly, most police officers don't care about this part of town.
With a firm grip on my keys, especially the tetra key, I enter. At first glance, nothing seemed wrong with my apartment, but that thought changes as soon as I hear footsteps.
As I turn toward the direction of the footsteps, I find a woman roughly my age. The most striking feature is her mouth, smeared with a deep red that drips onto the floor. A quick glance down reveals a puddle of the same color staining my floor.
"Hello, Oliver, did you miss me?" she says in a playful tone, drawing my gaze back to her face. Her deep green eyes, which almost make me lose more time than I'd like analyzing them, hold a hint of humor and nostalgia, and on her crimson lips is a smirk.
But despite all this, all I managed to say was, "But who are you?" Her gaze made me regret saying those words.