You are standing in a bank. There is a gun in your hand.

How did that get there? Your heart pounds in your chest as you survey the crowded room.

Does anyone notice the gun? No, they couldn’t have. One glance at the shiny black object in your slick palm would have set the whole place on high alarm.

What should I do? You try to think through the options. You have to get rid of it.

With a shaking hand, you try to tuck it into your pants. Maybe you can hide it.

“I saw that.” The foreign voice makes you jump out of your skin.

 You blink. “What?”

“The gun. You have a gun. You can’t hide it,” says the voice.

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can see it.” The voice has grown a body and an arm that now points at your hand. You look down. The gun is back in your grip and your fingers curl protectively around it.

What’s going on? You ask.

You’re going to shoot me.

But I’m innocent. You plead.

No one’s innocent.

I didn’t do anything. You beg.

Why are you loading the gun?

Something clicks. You’ve set the safety off.

Stop. You shout at your own hands, at the taunting voice.

You can’t. You don’t know how.

People are screaming. You’re pointing the gun at them. Your finger eases toward the trigger.

Please.

I awakened with a gasp, my legs tangled in a heap of sheets that pooled at the bottom of the bed. Sweat dripped down my back as I panted into my hands. It was only a dream, it was only a dream, it was only a…I repeated the words to myself hoping the next time I said them, I’d know they were true.

It had been three months since I left the house. The last place I’d been before my self-enforced seclusion was the Bank of America down the road. I was waiting in line to deposit a check when I’d gotten the phone call. You had died in a hit and run. I guess I was having a hard time getting over it.

The dream didn’t make any sense. Why was the gun in my hand? Why did I always wake with the realization that I had killed you? Had I? My unconscious must have thought so.

Or maybe I was killing myself, one dream at a time. Here I sat, paralyzed in fear, stuck in a past I’d never lived and never left.

I took a slug of water from the glass on the nightstand and prayed for peace.

What was wrong with me?

I slid back under the covers and tried to pretend that I didn’t exist. When I closed my eyes, I still saw that gun.

Was this what justice looked like? I demanded of the darkness.

It didn’t answer. Nothing did.