Blank Canvas

I freaked out when I woke up. I couldn’t tell whether or not I had killed someone.

The dream that woke me had saturated my mind with guilt and fear. I struggled in the darkness to remember whether or not I had shot a mailman and covered it up for years. I could remember pulling the trigger. That couldn’t be right, but I remembered doing it and felt remorse.

Trying to get back to sleep proved futile, so I got out of bed and shuffled into the living room where my wife was still awake, sewing. I sat on the couch and watched her work. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her. Even then, in my wakeful state, I wasn’t sure whether the dream were true. It still felt like a true memory. I didn’t want to confess to a crime that would put me in prison if I wasn’t sure it was just a dream.

I decided that I could confide in her. She listened without showing any sign that what I said disturbed her. She showed more faith in my innocence than I felt. She didn’t seem to appreciate my struggle to find a handhold on reality, but her aplomb calmed my mind a little.

The overwhelming remorse for buried secrets felt palpable and real. For all I could tell, I had committed the crime and had evaded detection for years. I thought maybe I had been suppressing the memory, and my dreams had brought it to my conscious awareness.

My wife finished her sewing, and we went to bed together.

I only felt secure in my innocence when I woke up in the morning, though even now traces of doubt flit across my mind. Imagination and memory cannot be fully trusted.