COHEN

It was the worst one I’ve ever had.

This time, it’s not night. It’s midday and the afternoon clouds have just begun to roll in. I’m somewhere I’ve never been before, suddenly standing in the middle of a gray pebbled road, only a few feet from a parked black limousine. Confused, I turn toward it, debating whether or not I should try to open it. Is that where I came from? Is this my limo? If so, I’d much rather get back inside. There’s a vague sense of unease out here, like a thick fog that hangs in the air. If I can just crawl back in, maybe it’ll go away.

“Cohen,” calls a voice in the distance. Judging by the sound of it, it came from far away, but it drifted down to my ears on the tail of the wind.

The voice stops me right before I’m about to try to open the door. I turn and see a woman standing on top of a small hill, looking down at me. She’s dressed almost entirely in black, and she’s gesturing to me with a wave, urging me to come to where she is for some unknown reason. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns her back to me and walks away. My attention falls to what it is that’s directly next to her, and what it is that’s around me and the stagnant limo.

I shudder. Gravestones, one right after the other, until I can only assume there are dozen. They’re all old and decrepit, and they’ve started to become overgrown with various shades of mosses and grime. I step closer to one of the stones nearest to me, bending down to my ankles to get a better look. The wording is elaborate but faded. I outstretch a finger to try to clear some of the crud away from the letters, thinking to myself that it’s a shame it’s been allowed to get this way, when the woman in black is suddenly in front of me, right behind the stone. My head shoots up at her swift appearance. Now that she’s closer, I can see her more clearly. Her hair is as black as her clothing, and it’s done up in a loose bun at the top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing, dark brown, perfectly framed by stern eyebrows, and they bore straight through me as though she knows my secrets. I have no idea who this woman is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.

“Cohen,” she says again. This time her voice is calm, steady. “Come.”

Her tone reassures me, so I follow. My feet crunch against the burned summery grass that’s trying to grow between the stones, and occasionally the tail of the woman’s long dress blows against my legs.

She stops in her tracks when we reach the top of the hill. Here, there are several other people. They’re all gathered around a grave, but it’s not a grave like all the rest. This one is fresh. Just dug. Still open, ready for a body to be lowered in.

Things start to register, and this is too close for comfort. All at once, I don’t want to be here. That foggy unease? The one that made me want to dive back inside that limo, if that’s even where I came from in the first place? It’s grown. Now it’s so strong that it overpowers me like a sick stench. I want to cover my nose to get away from it, to buckle over, to vomit. My body is telling me to do anything else, go anywhere else but here.

I haven’t actually garnered the strength to make a move, but the mourners seem to read my mine. They all turn their heads to look at me, emotionless expressions upon their faces.

I take a step back, the only sound the whipping of the wind until my heel meets with a gravestone. I trip over it and reach out for anything to take hold of, but end up landing on my back.

At the same time that the thud reverberates through my body with shockwaves of pain, I’m suddenly back at the shore. I look around and then bring myself to my feet, clapping off my hands. The funeralgoers are gone, but I’m not alone. In front of me are the back of several strangers, staring out into the water and talking among themselves in panicked voices.

My feet are bare. I wiggle my toes, and sand embeds between them.

“Did you see that?” one says to another, pointing into the water, which contains nothing more than a blank horizon and waves. “That guy just tried to help her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. It was him. I saw it with my own eyes.”

They turn around. Maybe I’m invisible. Maybe they’ll see right through me. I become aware of a strange sensation covering my body. My clothes suddenly feel sticky, and although the wind is the same here as it was in the cemetery, it now chills me to the bone.

“He’s all wet. Yeah, it was him alright.”

I hold my arms out to the side of my body and gaze down at myself. Sure enough, my entire body is soaked with seawater. Dripping, even, and the sand at my feet starts to darken as it grows wetter.

“Yeah,” he points, “he tried to save her, but he’s the one who fucking did it.”

“No,” I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”

“Yes, it was.” One of them comes closer, holding out his finger. “Don’t lie.”

He’s right, and I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t me. That was instinct.

“It’s icy,” I try to say, but the words come out weak and pathetic. I clear my throat and say louder, trying to defend myself, “The roads are slick.” As if that somehow justifies it.

“She didn’t do this to herself, you prick.” He’s full of rage. Who does he think he is? If he cares so fucking much, why didn’t he dive into the damn ocean and try to save her?

My fingers form a fist at my side, that previously unheard-of fury flowing through my veins. But it’s not only embarrassment and the regret of failure that’s fueling the fury. It’s pain, too. It’s the fact that I want to rush back into the water, but these people are stopping me, while attacking me at the same time.

My muscles relax as the sound of the waves lapping at the sand draw me back to where I need to be. I’m no longer worried about the men in front of me. I don’t give a shit what they think of me, or what they saw, think they saw, or what they’re going to say about me to anyone else. They can accuse me of whatever they want. All I need to do is get back into that water.

I walk forward and try to break through them, but their bodies form a kind of wall.

“Stop, man. You can’t help her now. You’ll kill yourself, too. Stop and wait for the cops.”

What are they talking about? Don’t they know I can swim? “Let me go,” is all I can manage. I throw my weight into them, but it’s no use. The three of them together are stronger than me, and they succeed in holding me back.

When I tell all this to Stella, she listens closely, not once interrupting, even though at times it looked like she wanted to break in to give me a hug or something.

“Jesus,” she says quietly when I finish, shaking her head. “Cohen, this isn’t okay. You need to tell someone.”

“Tell someone what?”

“Well…” she stands and starts to pace the room. She slows, approaching the next question with tenderness. “They accused you of something that you didn’t do. Right?”

“Stella, it was a dream.”

“Oh,” she says. “So they didn’t they really say all that?”

I shake my head. “No. That was the dream, and my subconscious mingled in there, fucking with me.” I stand too. “That’s the thing about my nightmares. Well, about everyone’s nightmares, I guess. They’re based off something real, but they’re twisted. Distorted.” I turn to her. “Don’t you ever get dreams like that?”

She nods quickly. “Of course I do.” She comes over to me and swoops her arm around my waist, dropping her cheek against me. “So what’s the real story?”

I glance down at her. She makes me want to open up, but something inside me won’t allow it. “Stella,” I say, “that story’s even longer.”