The voice came that morning. That morning, stilled in its slumber, with no howling wind slashing through my deserved rest, no impatient raps on our front door and no wild argument from the neighbours to shake my ears awake – that morning, was a very normal morning indeed. A blender whirred in time with my snore, while the thought of breakfast quivered my jaw. I thought I heard Dalia call in my dream, but I was too busy running around in circles, for God knows how long. Then I was pedalling fast on my bike, throat drying out with each desperate breath, mind overturned and churned by a dizzying landscape. My legs burned. I didn’t know where I was pedalling. My eyes searched for the solace of stability in my surrounds, but all I saw was a kaleidoscopic world that shifted and changed at will. I wanted to leave. I wanted Dalia to call again, but I didn’t know how. I was still stuck in my dream, and my dream was stuck in me. Sharp needles now climbing up my spine, the rusty whine of the pedals the only thing breaking the painful lonesome silence. I wait, and wait, and wait for relief. Then a familiar voice envelops me in its powerful warmth, and nudges me off the seat of my bike. I jolt in my clumsiness, and wake to hear Beyonce singing attractively to me from my sister’s radio next door.
And that was when I heard the voice.