The blackness envelops me; I’m naked, waiting. I hear them on the other side, screeching in glee and dressed in gaudy costumes; clowns, cakes, rock stars, animals… yes, every one of them, animals. The host grins in his shiny dark gray suit with his microphone held out, walking the crowd looking for odd objects.
I am the oddest object of them all.
Which door am I behind? One… two… three…
The final contestant steps up to the front of the audience for the deal of the day. A tiny old lady in a faded paisley dress, holding a white patent leather handbag. Her bucket list is empty – in a paper-flower hat, her deep wrinkles smooth out as she smiles at the host and she is almost beautiful. Somehow I know this, just as I know her last day on earth is approaching. Will the sight of me, nude and on display for the live studio audience be her final vision?
She chooses door number three.
I shiver, and try to cover myself but I’m paralysed. My hands are numb and a distant inkling tells me this is a dream and I’ve fallen asleep with my hands above my head.
The crowd grows quiet, holding their collective breath.
And the doors open.
The bloody red light burns my eyes and I make one final attempt to lower my arms and with a shriek both from fright and the ripping sensation of tendons in my shoulders I do so…
…to find the sun streaming through my window.
And what should be playing on the television…?
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Just a Dream.”