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I smell Paul Allen’s cologne. My eyes shoot open with the backing of the nightmare I just had where instead of killing Paul Allen, I’d taken him to bed. Sweat beads drip down my forehead.
I grumble in some disorienting mix of confusion and hangover as I stare at the ceiling. Eventually, when my eyes wander down, I see Paul Allen himself, comfortably sprawled over my chest. My cheeks feel a lot hotter immediately.
I writhe, hitting my head back against the headboard. I don’t think my nightmare has ended yet. I try to wake myself up, I blink over and over again hoping to see something real.
Will these nightmares continue? Is it some corrupt karma for hacking his head off with an axe last night? I left his body to decompose in my bath, was that not enough for this to all… wash away?
My train of thought is interrupted as Paul shuffles and mumbles. “Patrick?” I freeze up. “You’re shaking.” His cool breath falls onto my hand rhythmically and I can’t even pull my hand away. I'm completely paralyzed, and he’s not disappearing no matter how strongly I will him away. He feels strangely real, the worst part of this all.
His head tilts up to face me, and I place a hand in his hair to gently push it back down so as to stop the imminent eye contact. He’s pliant, it’s scaring me. He should be screaming, running away from me... Worst of all, there’s something weird in my subconscious making me play along. “M-morning, Allen.”
My other arm curls around Paul’s waist compulsively, fingers squeezing towards the base of his spine. I hope I squeeze him so hard he disappears from my nightmares. I hear him yawn. I fix my eyes shut, but just as quickly open them back up to stare at him.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Paul asks, pushing his head up, and I let my hand relax and rest in his hair. “Nightmare- yes, like, like this. You’re not real.” I feel a dreadful pool in my stomach.
Unfortunately, I can’t eat, there’s the equivalent of a puppy in my bed. I don’t want to leave him here. I mean… What might happen? He could tear up the place… Actually, not a puppy. Something more sinister, but just as annoying. I instinctively ruffle his hair and he smirks a little. It’s oddly cute. Unlike the real life Paul Allen.
“You’re smiling,” he says, blinking his blue eyes at me. See, the real Paul has disgusting eyes. This is completely different.
“I’m not smiling- you-,” A beat. “Are.” I follow up, slicking his hair back from where I ruffled it. He looks rather charming like this.
I cup my hands around his waist and pull him further up, towards me, solely for my own comfort. He nuzzles into my neck. Well, that backfired. “You wanna go back to sleep?” I can't help but nod with a “Mm.”
I stared at him for a while, this fake Paul Allen. Perhaps this is happening in real life with my wife, Evelyn, and the dream has just replaced her with Paul Allen. He looks especially feminine here. Although, that might just be him. And his sleepiness.
I prod at his neck, feeling his pulse. It’s… there. I don’t think this is a nightmare. I feel my own on my wrist, and it’s racing. I silently panic for a while, before it all gets to me, the panic or the comfort I’m not sure, but I pass out as well, squished underneath Paul Allen. The real one.