I dream of killing my coworker. I’m late for work because of it. I oversleep until I hear his truck horn through my window. He keeps honking while I gather my things. The more he honks, the more I think my dream could come true today.

I rush out, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and climb into the truck.

“Rise and shine, buddy,” he says.

He calls me “buddy” even though he knows my name. It reminds me of how someone might talk to a dog.

“You gotta buy yourself an alarm clock.”

“I have one,” I lie. “It didn’t go off.”

He doesn’t respond, rather lifts a bulky vaporizer to his lips and sucks nicotine. It crackles and whooshes. Cloudy vapor with a burning mint smell follows his exhale. Storm clouds form in the sky above us.

He says, “Hope you brought your swim-trunks.”

“D’you think we’ll finish early?” I said. “With the rain.”

“We’ll finish when we finish, buddy. Don’t be a girl.” 

At work we take turns hauling heaving gear and yanking jagged machinery. A lot of times I forget what we’re doing. I’m too tired.

My coworker glares sometimes, resenting how much weaker I am than him. Once, he told me he didn’t understand how a guy could be so scrawny. I watched the muscles of his back flex through his shirt. He asked if I had a disease.   

I remember something about my dream. Maybe I’ve known it all along, but I’m afraid.

It’s him. He’s the one doing it. He’s going to hurt me today when it rains, if I don’t do what my dream said.

“Buddy, finish up!” he calls from the truck.

I yank a thin wire slightly the wrong way. I’m distracted. It whips and slits the inside of my hand. I wince and watch blood emerge when I open my palm.

I pull open my backpack, trying to ignore the stinging. I search for the only thing I’ve looked forward to today: lunch.

My palm screams louder. Reality sets in. It’s the worst case imaginable. I sigh.

“What?” my coworker says.

“I . . . forgot my lunch.”

“Want a protein bar?”

I look at him. His eyes are as sincere as I’ve ever seen them. The protein bar is chalky and leaves a pit in my stomach, but it’s delicious— seasoned by hunger.   

“Thanks,” I say.

He’s silent. His vaporizer crackles. On the last bite of my impromptu lunch, I feel brave.

“Last night I had a dream,” I say. “That I killed you.”  

He drives, staring forward.

“ . . . What is this, a sleepover? Don’t tell me about your dreams, buddy.”

I look down at my feet.

The last job of the day always feels the longest. I follow my coworker across a flat plain on the side of the road, carrying our gear. He carries more than me.

There’s a crunch under my foot that makes me stumble and drop a piece of equipment.

I look back at what I stepped on: a bird, half-dead. It looks bloated, but its eyes are still moving. A lump pulses near its head, as if a heart is soon to be evacuated through its beak.  

“Buddy! Come over here, buddy. Come and look at what you did.”

It’s like he’s shoving my face in a pool of piss on a carpet. I hate him for it.

“Buddy, it’s broke now, look! How’re we supposed to finish now? You gonna sew it back together?”

“I don’t know I—”

I hear the crackling. It’s like his vaporizer, but he isn’t smoking. Whooshing permeates my ears, surrounding me. I realize it’s starting to drizzle.

I open my hand and look at the gash the palm. It starts to open more. I can see the inside of my skin. It closes, and then opens again, the flesh flapping.  

It’s a mouth, talking to me, squeaking in a weak little voice.   

It says, “Crush the head!”

A few droplets pour down my hand when it talks, like blood but darker— almost black.

“Pull out his eyes and swallow them whole!”

“Buddy,” he says. He’s standing in front of me, his hulking body betrayed by a look of confusion.

I hold out my hand so he can see my gash talk. It doesn’t say anymore words, rather it moans in a high pitched coo, like a baby.

My coworker shivers like a petrified animal. Then he stops and looks at his own hand.

He says, “My . . .  skin’s ripping . . . buddy— getting one like you.”

He shows me his hand as it opens. A gash is in the same place on his palm. It flaps open and says to him, “Protein.”

“I can see my bones moving,” he says.

He looks at me, waiting for a reply.

“I’m a murderer.”

I step forward and pick up the piece of equipment I dropped.

“Look what I did,” I say, showing him. He shivers again. His eyes are terrified, melancholy.

The gear is so heavy I struggle to lift it. My palm screams in pain while I do. If I tried to throw it, it would land a foot in front of me.

My coworker sees me struggling. He stops shivering and steps forward to help.

Easily, he lifts it over his head, looks up, and lets it fall onto his face. It drives his head into the ground. The rest of his body drops. I hear his head crunching, crackling, as his feet twitch. The air whooshes.  

I look away, feeling tears come on. I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . .

 . . . I’m tired . . .

. . . He drives me home, with the crushed husk of his head’s remains.

At my house he turns to me, eyelessly, and says, “Seeya tomorrow, buddy.”

I go inside and go to sleep. I’m tired.

B. John Gully is a literary fiction writer from Long Island NY.  

He is currently querying literary agents to represent his debut novel.