The American Scene [3] by Taylor Byas Halloween, and laughter gutters through the cracked window above my bed. I’ve rubbed my contacts right out of my eyes, and I see the world as if looking through pantyhose. The edges of everything soften—the dog-eared books I can’t finish, the coffee table, the quiet. What is a day about horror when waking and not waking make me equally afraid? If you asked me if I wanted to die, I would say no. If you asked me if I wanted to live, I would tell you I die in almost every dream. In last night’s dreamscape, I was a monster that felt pleasure when I enacted pain. Eventually, I set myself on fire to feel ecstasy. This is familiar work. There is a knock on my apartment door, a muffled chorus of Trick or treat! on the other side. When I open the door empty- handed, the children scatter. I am the scariest thing they have ever seen.
