The Man Who Killed the Cricket – 2

His eyelids were tightly glued together, or that’ show he felt trying to open them. After a little struggle, his eyes opened to a haze, and he was staring at the ceiling in his room again, only it was daytime, and the sun rays were out to get him, viciously harassing his face.

What happened in the tool shed? How did he get here? He didn’t give it much thought and demised it all as a bad dream. But, that cricket, that insolent cricket… that wasn’t a dream, he was certain. And at the that memory, he jerked up from bed like a man hit with a 1500 volt electric shock. He reached to the closet, but instead his hand bumped into the mirror. He was sure the closet was there on the right wall. He looked around to see it there, on the left wall. He shook his head, wiped his hand downward over his face and told himself he was disoriented.

He grunted under his breath as he left the room, or was about to, just before he hit the wall where he remembered the door was. He fell back on the ground, his eyes roamed the place, everything was on the wrong side, and the whole room looked like an inverted photo of his room as he knew it.

He dwelt on it for a minute, then fished the car keys out of his pocket and head out.

To be continued…

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