Daydream

It’s 5:32 am. I know because the aspiring stockbroker who lives on the other side of my wall’s alarm goes off at the same time every day, and I can hear it through the cardboard in my NYC apartment. I usually tell the time throughout the day by the sounds of my neighbors. Around 6:45 I hear Ms. Perilous door slam as she leaves for work. At about 8:00 the man two doors down make a smoothie. And around noon Mr. and Ms. Levi across the hall gets into their first argument of the day. Most people would find it annoying, but I find it helpful as nowadays time is a luxury that slips through my fingers like sand. I sit up on the edge of my bed to face my window. Straight ahead across the street is my “across the street neighbor Janie.” I call her my across the street neighbor because we live in the exact same apartment except hers is on the other side of the street. She sits on the edge of her bed just like me, except she's wrapping her hair in a silk scarf before she goes to sleep. Janie is tall and slim; she has beautiful dark skin like the night sky and light bounces off her like moonlight. Her tightly coiled hair is braided into two cornrows back, like she always has it. Janie is a night owl; I know because when I get up she’s just going to bed. She is an artist, a painter I think, and she must do her best work at night, which I can understand as a creative myself. When I lay awake at night sometimes, I watch her work. I can’t see much of the work itself, but she paints people, portraits to be exact. She loves to capture moments in time of pure emotion. Her pictures, while realistic, bring an element of fantasy with bright colors and rich deep skin tones, while still maintaining the emotion and the rawness that draws you in. She is extremely intelligent as well, she reads more books a week than most adults do in a year. And she loves having conversations about any and everything, analyzing every detail of every text and every tv show or movie she’s ever seen. She lives to learn and to grow. Except I don’t actually know any of this, in fact I don’t think her name is even Janie. I don’t know her, but I like to think I do. I like to think we’re best friends, and every day after Mr. and Ms. Levi’s first quarrel I run across the street to her apartment and bang on her door during the day even when I know she’s sleeping. She’s tired and reluctant, but she wakes up. She only gets up for me because I’m her favorite person and she is mine. She makes me go to new coffee shops with her, and I make her watch my favorite foreign movies. I listen to her talk about her most recent hyper fixation and I tell her about my latest script. We’re perfect for each other, like a moth to a flame and we know it. We’re soulmates and no one could ever take that away from us. Not a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a- My thought is interrupted by a gust of wind from my window hitting me in the face. Janie is gone by the time I come back to reality; she must’ve gone to bed. I get up and start the kettle on my way to the bathroom.

By the time, the macho man two doors down make his smoothie I’ve finished in the bathroom. I’ve decided I’m gonna work from home today. I can’t remember the last time I left the house let alone spoke to another human being so getting out for one day would be good for me, but I’m not up for it. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, I was lost in my own thoughts from the second I laid down to the second I sat up. At night my head is loud with anxiety, while my building is finally silent my brain is at its loudest. I fixate on everything, good and bad, mostly bad. The better ones are the fantasies of being in a relationship, or one of my scripts getting nominated for an Oscar and I get to go to the ceremony, of course I would bring Janie with me. When we go to coffee shops together, I always order tea and she always orders black coffee. She thinks people who drink their coffee with all those extra syrups and fancy flavors are wusses who don’t actually like coffee but drink it for the ‘aesthetic”. She makes a very compelling point. I love listening to her talk and ramble all day every day. She grew up in a big loving family and talking is her love language. She’s a social butterfly which compliments my introverted personality, we’re like Yin and Yang. One time me and her went to the MET museum for the day, and we decided to take one of those cheesy guided tours,10 minutes in and she’s speaking over the tour guide, completely hijacking the tour. It was hilarious for me but extremely aggravating for the tour guide. She didn’t mean to be rude, she just wanted to share her knowledge with everyone, because that’s how Janie is. She’s a giving person, and I love her more than anyone else. She’s colorful and fun and lively and everything I want to be. She’s a dream. A daydream. Before I ghosted my therapist, she told me that I use my mind as a form of escapism from my daily life and anxieties. The fancy word is maladaptive daydreaming, and she says that I can’t let it “get in the way of my reality”. I don’t believe her though. I’m a screenwriter, making up characters and plotlines in my head is literally my job., and so, what if I spend a few hours a day engulfed in my own fantasies. Don’t we all wish we cou-

The kettle hisses at me and I snap out of my haze. I pour the hot water over a tea bag and sit down at my table with my mug and my laptop. I check my email to see if I have anything from my manager, but there's nothing this morning. My inbox is completely empty. So are my messages on my phone. I would say I’m lonely, but that's a lie. I work freelance and speak to my agent once a week, my parents live in Boston, I’m an only child and I have no friends in the city. I’m my own best friend. It sounds sad to most people, but I don’t think it is. I love my own company, and of course it gets depressing at times and I become confined to my bed because I’m too paranoid and lonely to go outside for days but, hey we all have those days. And plus, I have Janie, and she’s all I need.

I pick up where I last left off writing. I get very invested in my work, and once I start writing I go into  what I call a work coma. The sounds of taxi cabs bellow, and the smell of my earl grey tea inspire me, spinning plots like a thread on a spindle for hours and hours on end. The sound of Ms. Perilous door slamming as she comes home from work snaps me out of my coma, and I feel my stomach growling at me. I haven’t eaten yet. I quickly place an order at my favorite Chinese place and head out the door.

On my way home I see Janie across the street walking towards her apartment and I freeze. Does she know who I am? I know her, I watch wake up and go to sleep every day, but does she even know me like I know her? I realize that I’m staring, snap out of it and quicken my pace. When I speed up, she slows down and stops. It looks like she’s calling for someone, and then I realize it’s Ryan. Ryan is Janie's boyfriend. I don’t like Ryan because he’s short, funny looking, and abusive (from what I can see) They’ve been together for about 8 months. He comes over a few times a week, they start to watch a movie and halfway through they start arguing, he gets up and yells and screams in her face and she sits and listens while crying. It’s painful to watch. The fighting started about 2 months ago and it hasn’t slowed down at all. At first it wasn’t too bad, he’d yell, shed cry, and he’d apologize and laugh it off, but now I’m worried about her. She seems helpless with him, like she’s too afraid to speak up in fear of what he’ll do to her. But what they do is not my business (Even though I sort of made it mine) It’s still not my place to get involved. When Ryan catches up to her, they enter her building together at the same time I enter mine. It looks like I’m gonna get a show tonight.

I get into bed around 11:00 and Ryan and Janie are already settled on the couch. I open up my laptop and continue working on my script from earlier, while still paying close attention to the window. At around 11:30 I look up to see the show has begun. She’s sitting on the couch; he’s standing over her with his mouth wide open. Yelling, screaming, spitting, waving his arms. Anxiety shoots through my veins cold like ice. I feel like I’m sitting on the couch with her. I can feel the spit droplets and his hot breath consuming my body like a thundercloud. I can’t hear anything he’s saying but I can just imagine this started over something stupid, I mean what about the movie Beetle Juice can trigger such a serious argument? He steps closer to her face and opens his mouth wider. I retreat into myself like I'm being presented with a threat. Suddenly Janie stands up to his level. This is new, she never does this. She yells and screams to match him and waves her hand in his face like she's condemning a dog who's just chewed up someone's shoe. I breakout into a cold sweat, from what I can see Ryan isn’t reacting, his face is dead, he’s just listening. She's taller than him so she looks down at him like a disobedient child. She’s made him feel small. He opens his mouth to try to respond, but she puts her hands on his chest and shoves him back. I jump out of my bed and scurry to the window, crouching down beneath the windowsill. My veins feel like ice and my hands are shaking with fear. She pushes him again, filled with pure rage, she’s screaming and yelling so loud I feel as if I can hear it. Tears are streaming down her face, spit falling from her mouth onto his chest. It’s messy, it's raw it’s painful and then- He hit her. It happened so fast I didn't even realize until I saw her hunched to her side. He took his fist right to her face. My breathing stops. Everything is still as a I watch her try and regain her balance. Should I go over there? Do I call someone? During my panic he hits her again. She throws her head back and wails, I think I see red, but I don’t know I can’t see much through the tears. He delivers one more blow to her stomach, and as she falls forward, he catches her with his right hand around his neck, and then his left. He doesn’t let go until her of her. I start to hyperventilate. What is he doing? She can’t breathe, he's gonna kill her!  And that's exactly what he does. He squeezes and pushes her up against the wall, she's flailing her limbs crying for help, banging against the wall. Does no one hear this? She fights and jerks for what feels like hours. And then she relaxes. She lets go. Life floats from her body and collapses her on the floor. She’s dead. Janie is dead. I’m in a full panic attack. My heart is in my throat and it’s blocking my airways. I fall to the floor and wheeze while clutching my chest begging for air. I cry so hard for her. What do I do? Who do I call? I’m terrified. I just watched my best friend die and did absolutely nothing at all. I failed her, the only person I love and care about. I failed.

I don’t remember anything after the accident, but all I know is I’m outside, it’s cold and I’m running. The air hits my chest like a brick, my post panic attack lungs are weak, but I have to keep going. I have to run. The one and only thing I remember from the last hour or so, was watching Ryan carry a black suitcase out of Janie's apartment and into his car down the street. A suitcase he did not arrive with. It’s her. He killed her, and he’s gonna cover it up. I can’t let the happen. I owe her peace of her death after I failed her in life.

I make it to the police station and run to the front desk.

“I need to make a statement please” I say while panting. Suddenly the room started spinning, the air was thin in my lungs.

“Are you ok ma’am?” Asks the receptionist.

“Please just let me speak to a detective.” I pant.

After sitting in the waiting room chugging water for 10 minutes I finally sat down with a detective. I start from the top, watching them walk in together, watching them watch the movie, watching him put his hands on her, watching her die. When I’m done, he asks how I know Janie. I say I’m her best friend, of course.

“Well then why didn’t you go over there” he asks.

“I was scared”

“Why didn’t you call her”

“I was scared”

He looks at me reluctantly. “When did you meet Janie?”

I’m at a loss for words. “Well. we’ve lived across from each other for almost a year”

“That's not what I asked” he responds “When did you mean this Janie”

I feel feverish and I started shaking “ I- I haven’t” I mumble.

“What?” he responds looking me up and down.

“I love Janie, I owe her this. I need you to believe me!” I say louder.

“Either you tell me where you know her from, or I can’t help you”

I stare back in anger and disgust. What does it matter if I know her? She’s dead!

He’s getting frustrated. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave”

“Fine, I’ve never met her!” I yell.

“You’ve never met her, yet you're her best friend?’

“Our relationship is complicated” I say shakily.

The detective leans in close.“ Ma’am are you under the influence”

I can’t believe this, why doesn’t he believe me! I told him every single detail exactly as I saw it. “What does it matter that I don’t know her!” I jump up and slam the table. “I cannot believe this! A woman is dead, and you’re worried about what drugs I’m on, I am completely sober and I’m telling you exactly what happened. Right now, while we’re sitting here her boyfriend is getting away with murder and you don’t even care.”

“I wish I could believe you, but do you hear yourself? He replies almost immediately. You come running in her at 1:30am panting, covered in sweat, you sit down and tell me your best friend who you’ve never spoken to or met has been murdered and you saw the whole thing and didn’t think to intervene? You sound crazy!”

The second the word crazy leaves his mouth my brain registers what I’ve done. I do look crazy. I called her my best friend? I don’t remember saying that. The dizziness hits me again and I’m crying.

“No please you have to believe me, she’s dead. I saw her die she’s dead” I’m choking on my tears “I love her so much I’m begging you to help me please he killed her and he’s gonna get away with it’

He sighs “Of course I’ll help you ma’am. Please just sit and wait.”

I melt into my seat and sob while he exits the room. I cry with everything in me. I failed her I failed her and I-

A switch flips in my head. I don’t know her. I’ve never met Janie. I don’t know if her name is Janie. I don’t know if her boyfriend's name is Ryan. I don’t know if she's a social butterfly. I don’t know if we’d be yin and yang. I don’t know if she’s my perfect match .I don’t know if she would enjoy spending the day at the MET. I don’t know if she’s dead. My heart drops, the room starts to spin. My stomach turns. I don’t know what’s real, I never did, and I probably never will.

The detective re-enters with a colleague, and I’m on the floor in fetal position shaking. “Ma’am? I brought a co-worker to speak with you and get you some help. Ma’am?” I quickly realize he’s not gonna help me find Ryan, he’s gonna help me from myself. What have I done? I can’t fathom the reality that I’ve made this up. Does Ryan even exist? Does Janie even exist? Is somebody actually dead, or is this just another plot I've made up in my head?