The People I’ve Killed in My Sleep

I have nightmares about accidentally killing people. I don’t know who they are or why they’re there, but I somehow end up killing them. Most of the time I hit them with my car, which is funny because I live in New York now and I don’t have a car anymore. But I hit them with my car and then I don’t want to go to jail, so I hide the body.

And I guess I have these nightmares because that’s my biggest fear: hitting someone with my car and killing them. Taking their life isn’t even what I’m afraid of, as terrible a thing as it is. No, I’m more afraid of what happens after. Because no matter how you look at it, I killed a pedestrian with my car and it will always be entirely my fault. I will go to jail for the rest of my life and live with the fact that I inadvertently took someone else’s life.

So in my dream I hide the body. I put them in my trunk and bury them or fill their pockets with stones and hurl their lifeless body off a bridge. It’s digusting. I wake up disgusted with myself — if I wake up. More often that not, I don’t wake up. I find myself running from the cops. I’m in hiding. Or sometimes the police find me and begin questioning me and I have to lie and pretend I didn’t just throw a body from a bridge and paint over the bloodstains on my front bumber.

And when I do wake up I’m heavy with guilt. My dreams are so realistic that I lie in bed for a long time, convincing myself I didn’t kill anyone — that it was all a dream. Sometimes the guilt lasts all day and it’s like I believe that I’ve taken a life, even though, deep down, I know I haven’t. I’ll pass a policeman on the street and hold my breath. All day I can feel the weight of the stranger’s body as I carry them to their grave. I repeat to myself over and over that it was all a dream, but it felt so real.

Why can’t I just have sex dreams about Donald Glover?

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