I keep having the same dream. The one where everything turns black and there’s nothing but a huge eye that’s staring at me. It seeps into my soul, calling out to me, beckoning me to perform its wicked deeds. I always yell no and then I wake up sweating.
Sometimes I don’t even have to be asleep. I can be sentient and still the room will turn black and instead of the eye hovering in front of me, I find myself standing on it. To remedy this, I do my best to fumble for the door and move to another room, preferably one where there are people in it. It shakes me to my core and I hate it. I hate how I’ve been suffering with this for a month, around the same time since I came to America.
My iPhone buzzes in my lap but I let it linger on silent.
I don’t know how I feel about my family moving across the ocean to start a new life. There was literally nothing wrong with our old one. I miss my life in Sweden. We used to live in Gothenburg and my dad worked as a research scientist for Valhalla Life. It’s one of the biggest hospitals we have in Gothenburg. But for some reason, dad quit because he supposedly demanded higher pay and they wouldn’t give it to him. At least that’s how the story goes according to my mother. But it doesn’t make any sense, why not just get another job that pays higher in Sweden? I’m here now though, so I guess it doesn’t matter.
The phone buzzes again but I ignore it.
We chose Palvalla because if we’re gonna move to a new country, we would at least be in touch with some Scandinavians. And by far, this is the best community for Scandinavians that I’ve heard about in America. Mom reckons we should’ve gone to Minnesota, but I like it here for the most part. However, there are weird terms I’m still trying to get used to. Like high school, homie, bro, Skittles, grades, grounded, go out, and a plethora of other bite-sized mysteries.
I also haven’t made that many friends, and it doesn’t have anything to do with me being shy. It just that I really hate my accent. Not because it’s bad, no. Most Swedish people have a pretty normal American accent and can speak English quite well. The trouble is that I hate the way I speak. I’m very insecure, which is something I’m trying to overcome.
I scowl in irritation. The phone is moving again.
I’m currently sitting in a park, looking out at people strolling by. I live in a condo that’s only a twelve-minute walk away from here. And the best part about this area of Palvalla is that it’s very close to the downtown area of Phoenix, so I never really get bored. There are a bunch of strip malls there that I visit sometimes.
I hold my head back, relishing as the bleating evening sun shines on my face and the warm invigorating air welcomes me. I’ve been here all day. It’s a nice break from that hollow, unforgiving, darkness. I hope I never see that eye again.
My thoughts veer back to my mother, she’s really struggling right now. About a week ago, she had an argument with my dad and so he ended up taking his stuff and moving out. To this day, I still wonder why he left and if he’s ever gonna come back. I asked my mother what happened. She’s always so transparent with me, which is one of the things I cherish about her.
“Your father is cheating on me,” she told me.
“With who?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He never tells me anything. Ask him!”
And I would, but he’s gone now.
I stare at the couple treading their way toward me. It’s a chubby round-bellied man and a curvy red-headed woman. I wonder how that pair turned up. I see the chubby man wink at me but then he stops midway to hold his gut. He stumbles to the ground and starts coughing uncontrollably. Blood starts pouring out of his mouth.
I stand up, startled. What’s wrong with him? Is he sick or something? Suddenly the red-haired woman follows him and she‘s coughing up blood. Before I can get a grasp on this, the whole park is fraught with a cacophony of coughs and miserable belching. I feel bad for some baby strollers that pass by because their parents end up barfing blood deep into the tiny pit.
I remember the phone buzzing and I relent. I finally pick it up. They appear to ve urgent texts from my mom.
Leirre, don’t go to the park today. The people are infected.
Leirre, come back home before you get sick!
Leirre, please pick up!
I look up from my phone and I see the chubby man has reanimated himself from the dead. And I’m his first target.
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