The Hitchcock Scream

I was jolted awake by my senses on full alert. They shouted at me, annoyed me, especially my ears. In my half-awake, groggy state, I realized what was going on. Someone, it seemed, was screaming.

It was a familiar scream. High pitched and shrill, it was a perfect copy of an Alfred Hitchcock scream. My slowly awakening mind suddenly realized why it was such a familiar sound. It was, after all, my scream.

I closed my mouth, cutting off my shrill voiced note in all its high-pitched glory, but I couldn’t keep my cherry lips together. Screaming, as loud and as long as I probably had, called for a lot of breath. As I panted, trying to gasp in more and more precious mouthfuls of oxygen, I stared at my room through the night tinged air.

Red, digital numbers from my black and green alarm clock blinked with a coldness only machines can offer. The screen saver on my teal green computer swirled with rainbowed pastels and full grace, but it too offered no comfort. My eyes traveled across my forest green carpet, past my cherry wood desk, across my mahogany bureau, looking for something that could offer strength and comfort. But my eyes learned what we all learn at some point: even at 2 A.M. in the morning, machines can offer only coldness and soulless companionship.

My mother appeared in my darkened doorway, a perfect red satin robe tied across her perfect waist, the robe complimenting her perfect ruby hair. Her perfect emerald eyes held the perfect mixture of confusion and concern, leaving no room for sleep or anger at being woken up. Everything about my mother was perfect, in case you haven’t noticed. I have always wondered how someone so absolutely perfect could end up with such an absolutely unperfect daughter like me.

“Lestial, hunny, are you ok?!” Super Mom asked, her voice perfectly concerned as she hurried her way across that deep green carpet.

“Yes, mom. I’m fine. Just... had a scary dream or something,” I answered, still panting for short gasps of air-conditioned oxygen. Why was I still panting? How long had I been screaming?

“Are you sure? Would you like me to sleep in here with you?” my mother asked, nervously tucking in my comforter around me.

“No, thank you mom,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll be fine.” Just leave, I silently pleaded, watching my mother’s concern lessen, making way for more confusion to swirl across her perfectly shaped face.

“Okay... if you say so,” she replied finally, feeling my forehead with her perfectly tanned hand. “Come to me if you need to. Je t’aime, mon petite chou,” she added. She had grown up in France, and though most of her heavy, thick accent had faded, the entire family used bits and pieces of French around the house.

“Je t’aime, mama,” I replied, watching her red satin robe float along the floor behind her as she walked towards my door. There was just the perfect amount of train to make her seem even more elegant than she already was. Surprise, surprise.

I waited a minute or so after she’d crossed my threshold before flinging my floral green comforter aside and crept softly and silently across the carpet to shut my brown, wooden door. I twisted the gold plated handle and softly slipped the light door quietly inside the frame. I gently let go of the handle, trying to make as little noise as possible. Now that I’d woken up screaming, my mom would have an ear out for any kind of unusual noise.

Once the door was shut, I walked softly to my clear sky blue portable phone. I slid the receiver silently out of the cradle and turned it over in my hands so that the black padded numbers faced me. I quickly dialed up the one person I knew I could count on at 2:30 A.M. any morning.

The phone rang several times, as loudly as it did at 2:30 P.M. Finally, a sleep infested voice groggily and angrily answered, “If no one is dying and/or dead, then the person on the other side of this conversation is about to be.”

“I love you, too, Katrina dear,” I replied hazily, and I couldn’t help but feel calmer when I heard her wise crack. I almost smiled with relief, but it was too soon for that.

“Erghhh,” Katrina grunted. “Celestial Angelique Monet, what in the hell are you calling me for at.... oh, Goddamn, the cat’s sleeping in front of my alarm. What time is it?”

“C’est... deux heures trente-trois,” I replied, checking my silver watch. I could just imagine Katrina talking on her clear blue phone, identical to mine. Her auburn-streaked blond hair would be in its normal curls, flung in every direction on her pillow. Her dark brown eyes would probably be half shut, and the light freckles on her nose would stand out against her rosy hued skin. And through it all, she still sounded like an angry tiger that had just woken up. Yeah, that was Katrina.

“If you make me translate that, I’ll stab you through the phone, Lest. I’ll regret it, like anyone would regret it, and I’ll mourn, but I will do it,” Katrina threatened, her voice still as sleep-filled as it had been when she’d answered. “You know I will do it.”

“Yeah, you probably will. I’ve seen your knives. It’s 2:33 A.M. Well, it’s 2:34 now,” I replied, translating the easy sentence.

“Okay. So, let’s think about this. My best friend calls at 2:30 in the morning, panting as if she just had wild sex and speaking French. Anyone else might see something wrong with this scenario!” Katrina said sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah, there is a reason I called. I woke up half an hour ago, and it took my own body 20 seconds to realize I was screaming like a Hitchcock movie,” I explained, and on the surface I knew she’d understand. Deeper down, I wasn’t so sure.

“And you don’t remember a dream or a thought or... anything?” Katrina asked, her sleep stained voice being slowly replaced with her usual deep, but feminine, voice.

“Not a clue. And I need to know,” I pleaded, as if she had an answer to my question, to my pleading.

“You know I can’t do anything until tomorrow. I’d have to be there with you to see what’s wrong to be able to say anything,” she replied to my hidden request. Her parents were both psychologists and Katrina had studied dreams, so she might notice something about my dreams.

“Okay. I’ll ask Super Mom at breakfast or something and tell you at school,” I said, thanking her in my thoughts. See? I told you. If I’d called anyone else, they would have hung up by the second sentence. I love my best friend.

* * * * *

A pale face stared back at me from the center of the mirror in the harsh light of the morning. “Well, good morning yourself, sunshine,” I shot sarcastically at my reflection, spitting the words as if they were a candied poison.

I watched cherry red lips form out the sounds in the sentence I’d just said. They hovered mindlessly, waiting for my mind to tell them what to do. My eyes traveled up my face from lips to a small, upturned nose. Above them, I stared into my own impossibly mint green eyes, which were generously rimmed with thick, long, dark black lashes. All of my slender face sat against its alabaster setting, which I had inherited from my father, and behind all that sat my perfect, ruby hair from my mother.

I dried a few water droplets off my chin and then threw my ice green towel over the wooden rack hanging on the wall and walked out of the spacious bathroom. My feet sank gently into the pearl gray carpeting in the hallway as I walked to the farthest door in my hall -- destination: perfection.

I found my mother tossing her perfect comforter over the huge bed she shared with my father. She looked completely stunning, as she always did, even though she was wearing a simple red tee shirt and a knee length black skirt. I felt out of place in this perfect room. I hardly fit in wearing my worn baseball tee shirt and my favorite jeans. My jeans were torn, held together with safety pins, duct tape, and a lot of love.

“Uhm... Mama, dearest?” I asked tentatively. Got to do this just right, I thought to myself. She turned her perfect face towards me and gave me an award winning smile. “Yes, mon petite une?”

“Could... could Kat maybe spend the night tonight?” I asked meekly. I had to get this right, I needed to have Katrina over.

“Well...” I could see disapproval in her eyes. “I don’t see why not. Are you sure you want to...” she trailed off. She didn’t add “after last night,” although I knew she was thinking it. I was thinking it, too.

“Yes, Mama!! So it’s okay?!” I exclaimed excitedly. YES! I thought. Maybe I can figure out what happened.

“Of course,” my mother replied, her tone clearly implying it wasn’t.

“Merci! Je t’aime!” I replied, walking out of the perfect room. A giant weight lifted as I left that room, a weight that settled in while I was in there. I didn’t like to be around such perfect surroundings. I barely felt the floor under my feet as I finished getting ready for school. Maybe we would find out what had gone wrong last night.

* * * * *

“So, you do know that there’s every possibility that you won’t have the dream again tonight, and I’ll have come over for no reason, right?” Katrina asked me that night.

“Well...” I said. I hadn’t actually thought about that, but she was right. It could have been a one night only thing. “You won’t have come over for no reason!”

“Ok... just making sure that you know. Let’s do this!”

I laid down underneath my green comforter. Tingles ran up and down my spine, and I could feel something in the air. I didn’t know what, but something was definitely there. I pulled the comforter up closer around my pale chin and stared at Katrina, who sat on the floor like she was doing nothing more exciting than watching television.

“So now what?” my voice startled me. When had it become so quiet in this room? It seemed so much like we were getting ready for a death. The air was heavily perfumed with the scent from my candles. I’d never noticed it so strong before, it almost choked me as I laid in the familiarity of my own bed.

“Well, duh. You sleep! But, for all you can do, be careful. The mind cannot exist without the body and the body cannot exist without the mind. So don’t let anything kill you in your dreams... or your mind may believe it.”

“Yeah, yeah, we all saw The Matrix, Kat.”

I lay there, trying to sleep. My muscles ached with the need to sleep, and my eyelids drooped with it. Must... sleep... I thought. I faded in and out... fading... fade... .ing....

* * * * *

I was... in the sky? No, I wasn’t. I was flying through dreams, some of them black and white, some in color, but all strangely familiar... I’d heard people dreamed in black and white, but I’d always assumed I dreamed in color. I never thought someone could dream in both, at the same time. I was flying above black winged birds and over shower stalls and through darkened parks with lovers taking walks. Wait… I thought. These were all scenes from movies by Alfred Hitchcock! Oh... oh, no...

The swirling colors and changing scenery stopped. My eyes were blurred, and something hurt. How could it hurt, I was dreaming? I pinched my arm and repeated to myself: it does not hurt. I jumped back, not from the screaming pain in my arm, but from the sight of the shadow from behind me. I turned around just in time to catch the killer pull the curtain across, baring my body. I began to think, Just fight it, but I didn’t.

I let loose that glorious scream, the high-pitched note of Hitchcock fame. I could feel phantom hands on my wrists, and I knew Katrina was trying to wake me up. But none of it mattered anymore, none of it had ever mattered. All that mattered was this one glorious scream, this pure note of terror. I wasn’t surprised to see the dark hair tumble down across the shoulders, nor to see the knife falling, cutting through the time. Everything seemed to slow. I watched the reflection of the water droplets off the shine of the knife and my breath misted out, covering the tip as I screamed and screamed. The point of the knife pierced my heart and with the dying breath, the killer was not my mother as I had suspected, as fit with the scene of the dream, which had now become a fatal reality. The killer... the killer was me.