Strained Emotion - Overture.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, I will be your Bruce Banner. Today, the gamma rays will be singing for you. He came again today. This time, I silenced him by raising a weary hand. I am getting stronger. I don't think it's the therapy. It was only a month ago that I woke up in a cold sweat, in the stairwell of my school in the middle of the night,with no idea as to how and why I was there. My dreams are getting darker. Or what Epicureans would call Dark. I'm glad I found my Pericles. I dream of huge, unending stone walls. My hands feel the cold stone. Then, through an opening on the roof, I see the moonlight illuminate a figure on the ledge above me. He is dressed in a blue shirt, open at the collar. I can see that he is muscular, because of the bulge in his forearms. He looks at me. I can see that he is handsome, almost reminding me of Marlon, but just then, he smiles. It's a cold smile, and it leaves me shivering. He tells me he is me. I stare uncomprehendingly. He tells me I'm weak. In need of a brew. His potent blend. I wake up. It's a dream. Relax. A bad case of nerves, I tell myself. I smile cheerlessly.
I have discovered a side of me that's not quite well-off. It looks inviting. But is not. Go away, Tartar.
I sit upon the cold, sequined chair. The shrink twirls his pen around his finger as he looks at me, and enquires after the progress of his patient. I'm much less defiant now. I feel a strange calm come over me, like it does when I'm debating or when I'm emceeing. He pushes his gold-lane spectacles further up his nose, and adjusts his wiry frame to sit more comfortably. I imagine his face contorting as he makes love to his wife. Does he ask her how far along is she? Does he order her to scream his name out loud? Does he come inside her? The thought is disturbing, and I ignore it. All I want to do is to go home, curl up on my bean-bag, and listen to Jimmy Page caressing his guitar with his finger, or watch Chris Gayle swing his willow or turn the page of yet another Kafkan novel. He tells me whether I'm taking my medication. I answer in the affirmative. I look away. I mumble 'Bathroom Break' and excuse myself. I walk mindlessly, and catch a glimpse of my face in the flyblown mirror. I look tired, but I can see that smirking existentialist under the surface, chortling at my inability to live up to my expectations of myself. Why do I not feel? No. No. No.

Shalom.

I know it's not the rain that woke me up because I find myself falling asleep to the rain more often than not. So, I open one bleary eye and reach for the light. My arm misses the switch by a couple of inches, and I fall headfirst onto the pillow. I notice by the light of the pale moon streaming in through my window, that my bedside clock reads 2:30 AM. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, and squint at the window. There is an unmistakable bulge in the curtains, something that looks out of place here, in the serenity of my bedroom. There is a huge china ashtray on my study table, with a few spent cigarette butts inside it. I am startled by its presence because I don't smoke. Yet.

I proceed cautiously towards the window and yank at the pullstring. I stifle a tiny scream, as I see the dim outline of a man in a suit. As he turns to face me, I see that an unlit cigarette dangles precariously from the corner of his lips. His suit is well-tailored and he is clean-shaven.

'Hello, I have been waiting to meet you, you genetically-tainted bastard. Lovely weather, no?', he says.

As the moonlight hits his profile, I collapse to the ground.

He looks like me. Talks like me. Is me.