“Tell me more about your dream…”, I say into her hair, my voice cracking.

**

Flashback – Some months ago, somewhere

“Gaaah…”, he says and I pretend not to hear him. I keep on flipping through the pages of an old magazine, I don’t even look up at him. He’s disgusting and, at the same time, he’s like… a brand new creature. Fascinating, somehow. There are times when I think about him like a shaman. Because his eyes always seem lost in something I can’t see and I wonder if he can see right through things and his only problem is that he can’t speak coherently anymore.

Then he whispers and still I pretend not to pay attention. But when he whispers again, I do. Because, for the very first time in months, what he is saying makes sense.

“Johnny…”, I call him. Calmly and quietly like the boss told me to speak to him.

His big rounded eyes float into nothing, staring at the ceiling, and I lean my back against the chair again.

“You know my wife”, he says then. Abruptly and unexpectedly. Clearly. His voice is crystalline, and not muffled or strained or choked or slimering. It’s not the smearing voice of a drug addict suddenly grown insane. It’s a normal, regular voice and I look up at him.

“Johnny…”, I repeat, and this time his empty eyes turn to me and he smiles this idiotic grin, making me shiver.

“She said that I knew her wife”, he repeats like he’s saying the funniest thing in the world.

I grab the tape recorder from the nightstand beside his bed and push REC. The tape starts rolling without a sound.

“She said that I knew her wife”, Johnny repeats as if he knew that I’m recording him. Of course he doesn’t. He’s just a little more than a veggie, but still… Still, he’s talking.

“…And she called her Carmen…”. He sucks in a deep breath and a wire of froth comes out from his mouth. It’s frankly disgusting but I’m not bothered. After all, it’s part of my job.

“…Then she had a gun. Gunny-gunny. A gun…”.

His head tilts to a side as I place the tape recorder on his pillow.