Dylan awakened suddenly from a nightmare, jerking as if he had been electrically-shocked. He wiped away the cold sweat that had beaded his forehead and glanced over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. 3:02AM. The all-too-familiar feeling of a yawning chasm felt like it was opening in his chest, and he reached a hand towards it to make sure that there wasn’t. The feeling was instantly replaced by one of stupidity for both worrying, and for forgetting the dream as swiftly as he had awoken.
Dylan stared at the ceiling fan as it undulated slowly over his bed in the dim light filtering into his room from the stars and moonlight from the edges around his curtains; though Dylan had adhered them to the wall with duct tape to keep out the sunlight during the day, he hadn’t been able to do a thorough job as he had already used most of the roll for wrapping the pipe bombs Eric and he had made, and for the fake weapons Eric and he used for Radioactive Clothing.
“Can’t do anything right,” he inadvertently mused out loud to himself. His mutter sounded too loud in the dark stillness. Tom and Sue were sleeping, as they worked in the morning, and there was no outside noise as the Klebold house was way out in the boonies with their nearest neighbors nowhere nearby.
Dylan was painfully aware how the only company he had was the soft, intermittent ‘whoosh-whoosh-whoosh’ noise of the fan, and instead of grounding him, the realisation caused the chasm to make an appearance again.
Feeling like if he remained still any longer, alone in the darkness of his room, the ceiling and walls might crush down on him, he got up and flicked on the lightswitch and peered into the small mirror hidden on his closet shelf. It was cracked and chipped at the edges from when he had gotten drunk in his room by himself one night when his parents were on vacation, and smashed the mirror with an empty vodka bottle in a rare burst of anger. His reflection stared back at him, crookedly. In a way, Dylan was glad his glasses had been lost; now, the physical features of himself he didn’t like were less noticeable to him; his coarse blonde hair that never behaved unless he tied it back appeared less unruly than usual and his too-prominent nose and too-strong chin were softened and minimised.
Dylan sighed and ran his hand through his hair to try and flatten it before he crammed on his Boston hat and reached for a pair of black BDUs from the maelstrom of clothes that littered his bedroom floor. He donned his leather trench coat over the Downward Spiral shirt he had fallen asleep in and gathered his wallet, keys, and onyx ring from his computer desk and made sure to flip over the offending mirror and turn off the light on his way out of his room.
Slinking silently through the hall, he made sure to skip the spots of hardwood that creaked, and manuevred his tall, lanky body expertly around the hidden obstacles in the dark with the help of the moonlight shining down from the skylights, trained from a year of insomnia and night-time excursions with Eric on “Rebel Missions.” He passed a side table with a row of framed photos propped up on it; he knew the precise order in which they sat, from his and his brother Byron’s school photos, to one of Eric Harris, Zach Heckler, Brooks Brown and him in freshman year on a field trip to a museum in Denver, to a photo of Dylan and Brooks from an elementary school-year Halloween dressed up as Bill & Ted, and the grand pièce de résistance, Byron at his high school graduation with their beaming parents and a younger, smaller Dylan (he hadn’t had his random awkward growth spurt yet), hovering a few feet to the side, looking a little dejected and a lot uncomfortable; Byron and his friends had always enjoyed ridiculing Dylan and never made that a secret to his face.
Dylan only paused briefly in the front foyer to pull on his military-issue boots before he exited the house into the cool night air and quickly strode down the driveway to his car, his long limbs moved swiftly and he was already unlocking his driver’s side door after a few short steps.
Dylan started up his old BMW and rummaged through the mess of garbage on the passenger side of the car, throwing Burger King wrappers and bottles of ‘Mango Tango’ Snapple and Dr. Pepper in various states of emptiness towards the backseat as he searched for his CD book. He thumbed past the first few pages and found the specific album he was looking for. Using one hand to steer the wheel as he reversed and the other to insert the disc into his dash, he skipped tracks and switched gears and drove off as the starting notes of “Disarm,” by Smashing Pumpkins began.
Really well done! Amazing visuals there and loved the description of the framed photos.



















