That fateful evening, Tyler Anderson came home late, then went to bed as usual. After a good night’s sleep, he woke up to the gradual realization of being in a jail cell. The only familiar item nearby was his wristwatch, now running backwards.
A guard soon brought Tyler a dismal breakfast, then came back to take him, handcuffed, to the presence of a judge.
“So, Mr Anderson, you enjoy writing the odd microfiction story, do you?”, asked the magistrate. “You’re accused of first degree murder of a hospitalized and defenseless female fictional character. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
Tyler got by the next few weeks in a perplexed daze, ferried between his cell and his trial.
On one occasion, as the prosecution painted a portrait of the victim’s life and showed the court some family photos of hers, Tyler exploded: “Miss Dunn?! Her family?! Hell, she didn’t even have a name, let alone a family!”
At each angry strike of the gavel, Tyler’s gaze jumped from one juror to the next and it became clear that, within a week, both verdict and sentence would be no surprise.
“For your crime, you shall be incarcerated for the rest of your vivid dream, with no possibility of parole. That concludes our proceedings.”
Every night since, Tyler falls asleep clutching his receding wristwatch, hoping it is the thread that will lead him out of this senseless labyrinth, back into his bedroom. But it’s been a while.
(Contribuição para um desafio do Global Writing & Storytelling Group do Internations em Janeiro de 2022.)