Wake Me Not

Wake Me Not

Tomorrow is going to be a perfect day.

I’ve been telling myself this for weeks—months even—like a prayer whispered into the dark. I repeat it under my breath, silently mouthing the words as I lay on this narrow slab of a bed, as if chanting them might weave some kind of spell, holding back the black tide that waits just beyond my thoughts.

I picture it the way you’d picture a place you’ve longed for all your life but have never seen in person—soft around the edges, hazy, almost too beautiful to be real. I imagine waking to sunlight spilling through my cracked blinds, warm and golden, draping the walls in a glow I haven’t felt in years. I see the way it falls across my floorboards, catching the dust motes in slow, lazy spirals.

The scent of coffee will be the first thing that pulls me from sleep. Rich, sharp, alive. It’ll fill my tiny kitchen with something close to comfort. I’ll pour it black, the way I’ve always taken it. No sugar, no cream—just the bitter strength of a morning that belongs to me.

I’ll sit at the table my parents left me. That table has seen more than its share of laughter, arguments, and long silences. I’ll run my hands along the nicks and grooves worn into its surface and think about the meals we used to share there, back before the world turned ugly. I’ll watch the street outside my window as the neighborhood wakes: the first distant sound of children’s voices, the rustle of leaves as a breeze stirs, the soft trill of sparrows in the budding trees.

There will be no shouts tomorrow. No slammed doors. No cold stares burning holes in my back. No whispers about what I’ve done—or what they think I’ve done—slipping from one mouth to another like smoke.

Tomorrow, I will be free.

I’ll step outside into the cool air, my boots scuffing the porch she used to sweep every morning. The lilacs will be blooming along the side, their scent drifting toward me—thick and sweet, like purple velvet against the skin. She planted those. Back when we still had something worth tending to. Before everything fell apart.

I tell myself there’ll be a letter waiting for me in the mailbox. I can almost feel the weight of it between my fingers, the smoothness of the envelope. Her handwriting will be the same as it always was—looping, deliberate, beautiful. And inside, her words will tell me she hasn’t forgotten me. That maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is possible. My hands will tremble as I read it, but my smile will be real this time.

After a slow breakfast, I’ll wander down Main Street. The shopkeepers will greet me with nods, maybe even smiles. The air will smell of fresh bread from the bakery, of sawdust from the old hardware store. I’ll stop by the park and find the bench under the oak trees where she once told me she’d love me forever. I’ll sit there and listen to the wind in the leaves, the distant hum of life all around. And for a moment, I’ll believe that forever could still mean something.

Tomorrow is mine. I can taste it.

But just as the vision begins to solidify in my mind, something cold slips into the edges of my dream. A sound. Too sharp to belong in that perfect world.

My eyes open.

A sterile white glare slices into me, bleaching the edges of the dark. The buzz of fluorescent lights is constant, low, maddening. I blink hard, trying to will the daydream back into existence. But it’s gone. The only thing real now is the metal cot beneath me—cold, unyielding, pressing into my bones.

It’s 12:01 a.m.

The cell feels smaller tonight. The walls lean in, suffocating, the air thick with the reek of disinfectant that doesn’t quite mask the deeper stench underneath—sweat, fear, and time gone stale. Somewhere down the hall, a door clanks shut, the sound echoing like a hammer in a deep well.

Tomorrow is not freedom. It’s the end.

The thought settles on my chest like a slab of granite. The guards will be here before long, their boots thudding on the concrete, keys rattling in the heavy locks. They’ll tell me to stand. They’ll shackle my wrists and ankles, the metal biting into my skin, and march me down a corridor I’ll never walk again.

My heart hammers, but it’s not hope anymore—it’s panic, raw and metallic in my mouth. I stare up at the cracked ceiling, tracing the jagged lines like a map that leads nowhere. I think about the two faces I can never escape, the ones that come to me in the moments between sleep and waking. Their eyes, wide and startled. The last sound they made. The way their bodies went still.

I press my palms into my eyes, trying to blot it all out. But memory doesn’t need light. It blooms in the dark.

Some nights, I’ve told myself I didn’t mean for it to happen that way. Other nights, I’ve told myself they deserved it. Tonight, the truth feels different. Tonight, I can’t tell if I’m sorry for them… or just sorry for myself.

The shadows in the corners seem to grow, stretching toward me like they can smell the fear coming off my skin. My breath sounds loud in my ears, ragged, uneven. I imagine the last walk—how quiet it will be, except for the sound of the chain between my ankles scraping the floor.

The room seems colder now. My fingertips feel stiff. I imagine the needle. The cool sting at first, then the rush of cold spreading up my arm, flooding my chest. My lungs tightening. The edges of my vision darkening. They say it’s peaceful. I think they’re lying.

The worst part is knowing that the perfect morning I imagined—sunlight through blinds, the smell of coffee, her letter in my hands—will never happen. It was never going to happen. It was just a story I told myself so I wouldn’t have to think about this moment.

But now there’s nothing left to hide behind. No tomorrow worth waking for. Only this night, dragging on minute by minute until the guards arrive.

I close my eyes one last time. No sunlight this time. No lilacs. Only the slow advance of darkness, curling its fingers around my throat.

Tomorrow, they say, I will die. And all I have left is the ghost of a perfect day that never was, dissolving into the black.