There are three things that follow the appearnce of the light: the scent of smoke, a heavy weight at my feet, and the knowledge that I should not be afraid.

I can't be sure of how long he'd been there. I didn't notice the shift of the bed as he settled his weight down, didn't hear the creaking of the door or even the window as he entered. It is only the light that wakes me, bright enough to permeate my close eyelids as I slept that I'd jolted awake at the sudden, unwelcome disturbance.

When my eyes open, however, there is only darkness to greet me. My head swivels in confusion, sure I hadn't simply imagined the sudden brightness, and it is then that I see him.

He sits perched at the end of my bed, his slim figure cloaked in a frock coat so dark his already ghostly figure is obscured even further in the dark of the night. It is only by moonlight I am able to make out his features. I squint into the gloom, forcing my eyes to adjust to the darkness and see that he’s an older man with skin so transparent he looks sickly, the image of indisposition only further enunciated by his hollow cheekbones and deep, sunken brown eyes. The harshness of his visage would be intimidating if it weren't for how the curvature of his face falls into the softness of a well-trimmed beard and how he sits, hunched and unopposing, his hands splayed on his lap, palms outturned as if in surrender.

It is this gentle manner that eases me. I relax from so intensely studying him, letting my shoulders drop as my body finds comfort once more in the plummage of pillows that surrounds me.

“Dickens.”

His name falls from my lips with ease, as if he were an old friend I was reuniting with after a period of abscence. It surprises me at the familiarity of which I seem to know him, but the old man simply smiles as if he, too, can understand the closeness in which I greet him.

Charles Dickens moves, the first sign of life he's offered. A boney hand emerges slowly from the layer of clothing he's hidden himself in, and produces an already-lit pipe pipe that he brings to his lips with a slow, exasperated inhale.

"Am I dreaming?" I regret the question the second it passes my lips, angered at myself for such a thoughtless question, though I don't move to say as much; part of me wants to hear the answer.

He takes his time in responding. He exhales, a soft cloud of smoke floating past me as he closes his eyes to lean back onto the post of my small twin bed. He seems to debate the question, his lips twitching into something like a grin before he opens his eyes to meet my gaze. "That depends. Would you like to be?"

"That would make it easier, surely."

A soft hum of agreement passes his lips, "Indeed."

Silence follows. Charles Dickens is a man of many words, and yet... silence. Though where I am unsure in this quiet, awkward and yearning to make conversation but falling short of knowing the words to make it, Charles is comfortable. He sits, eyes closed, at the foot of my bed, unmoving and resting peacefully. He seems sure of the quiet he has created, content in this world that is not his.

It angers me for a moment, the assuredness in which he sits here. He has enetered my home, disturbed my peace, and now dares to sit in a content silence while leaving me to brew in my confusion? He offers me no explanation, no words of wisdom, nothing of use that might be uniform for a man of his caliber.

"You're here for a reason, dream or not." I sling my words at him as an accusation, and though my eyes narrow and arms cross to complete the picture of annoyance , I once again find myself surprised at the way I speak to him.

Charles is unperturbed at the venom I spit. He nods, not bothering to open his eyes. "As are you."

There is the same fiery passion in my tone as I answer, "And what might that be?"

An eye cracks open, but when I meet his gaze, his expression is not alight with the usual teasing joy I had come to expect. Instead he is somber, his brows upturned in what seems like pity for me. "To pass over, young one."

His words hit me like a gunshot. Any feeling of indignation that had been once again ignited at the idea of this man pitying me falls away with the sudden realization.

Part of me knew this truth. Part of me does not tremble under the weight of his words, does not crumble with the knowledge that the reality of Charles Dickens' prescence in my bedroom means.

With this realization comes the memories. They flood me, sudden and unexpected, crashing against me to send me reeling.

Memory: I trusted him. Memory: He has hurt me before. Memory: I was foolish to trust him.

Charles sighs as he pushes himself away from where he had leaned against my bedpost, grunting in the effort it takes him. I offer him no assisstance but instead draw myself away from him, disgusted.

"Girl..." He reaches for me then, and though I recognize the sorrow in his eyes and I know he does not mean me any harm, I open my mouth and I scream. I scream loud enough my throat goes raw with the effort and I'm left curled into a ball, pressed into myself tight enough so that I may stitch myself together.

I scream for myself, for who I was, for who I never would be. I scream for the death that Charles Dickens has written unto me, fated me to without a second though. Moreover, I scream for the life I was destined not to live.

"Why would you do this to me?!" It's another accusation slung at him and this time I recognize where my anger comes from.

He nods in understanding, which only makes me hate him more. "It could only ever be this way."

Each word is another punch to the gut, another memory of my undoing. Each word only brings me back to the night and I can taste the blood in my mouth and feel my body begin to weaken, give up, and turn to the comfort of the light that threatens the corner of my vision.

I only manage to cough a sob in response, turning my face into my pillow.

"Come," he says, and this time when he reaches for me I do not flinch, I do not pull away. My body aches with the effort that crying brings, and though Charles has brought my death, he also offers my salvation.

Charles Dicken's lifts me into his arms and holds me close to his chest as he presses a kiss to my forehead and smoothes down the messy curls atop my head. "You were a wonderful character, Nancy, and, oh, how I loved you. It's time to come home with me now."

Indecipherably small to the naked eye, the handwriting penned each night into his journal was not meant to be erratic. James would construct each and every eensy letter with masterful precision, hours at a time, lost in his fervid thoughts, making plans without the urgency of watching the clock. Eventually, when he felt a sense of satisfaction, his journal would be placed by his bedside at an exact angle; the pen tucked in snugly next to the binding, as if it too was ready to retire for the evening, but sleep would elude him until he read from the manifesto, his bible, his voice from the grave, Mein Kamph.

Purchased at an obscure bookstore years back, the immediate inclination towards the text was kismet; as if Hilter had been born again within his soul. It was his fantasy that the words were written for him, personalized like a love letter; and as he’d place the book neatly on top of his journal each night with heavy eyes, he would imagine the Fuhrer incarnate was in the room with him, pleased by his unwavering loyalty.

His ailing mother knew of his fascination but she did not overreact. She assumed it was just an extension of an ordinary young man’s interest in militia and conflict, therefore as a believer in respecting his privacy and choosing when to pick her battles, she had not contemplated confronting him. Totally clueless about the depth of his depravity, at a moment of weakness, or perhaps it was strength, motherly love led her hand astray and she decided to open up the journal and take a peek without success. Even with a magnifying glass, all she saw was a single straight line of blue ballpoint ink. How could she know her current use of a wheelchair put a target on her back? No. James was not ready to murder his own mother, but he did consider if her health continued to decline, he may have to cross that bridge. Part of the written plan.

Perhaps Hitler was his father figure, having never known his own. On an ordinary day, while James lay unencumbered within his mother’s womb, his innocent father was walking across the street when he was struck and killed by a drunk driver. Close to, but not yet of legal age, alcohol was also placed on his hit list; it was what he considered the kiss of death in a bottle and he vowed to never let it touch his lips. But alcohol was not the only evil in the world according to James and his teacher, and when the time was ripe, he would rise to the occasion and make his mark, called into action by an occultist third eye that kept him company along with his dejected heart.

Book still in hand, it was a presumptuous cough alerting him that he had dozed off while reading; a rare occasion, but all things are possible once in a blue moon. Coming from the foot of the bed, a vision in all its glory, one James had wished upon, and now realized, was realized without fear. James sat up in awe.

“Mein Fuhrer. You have come.”

He was sure the shadowy figure at the end of his bed was Hitler in spite of the dimness, although he was not sure he could actually touch him. After all, he’d already been dead for seventy-two years, so James was left to ponder his presence, assuming a rational explanation.

“Yes. I have come to encourage you, to thank you for your loyalty and your dedication to my ideology. It has been a long time since I have become aware of someone so devoted to my words.”

“But how did you know? How could you know? You are dead.”

“I am not sure everything that takes place needs to be explained. Doesn’t the Christian faith call for us to believe in God blindly? To have faith without proof?”

“I suppose. Forgive me Mein Fuhrer. I have much to learn. Please teach me. Lead me. I feel there is so much more I need to know before I can carry out your work.”

“When I was your age, I too was conflicted. I relied on the wisdom of Dietrich Eckart, but at some point with maturation, it was I that could have taught him. You will see. Read my words, continue to write; plan and you will gain confidence by and by.”

“I am so glad you are here because there is something I am wrestling with. There is a rally next month, August 11th in Charlottesville, VA held by a group called Unite the Right. I’m planning to go. I believe it is time I gather with other Nazis. There is only so much I feel I can accomplish on my own. It is expected to be a peaceful protest but there are moments when I feel such rage towards our enemies, I cannot promise that I won’t react poorly if I am confronted and this has been keeping me from publicly expressing my views. Am I making any sense? Should I go and take the risk?”

“Ah. Anger. Yes. I understand. If I had let my anger hold me back, I would never have made any progress. My rise to power would have been doomed. Do you understand? Of course you need to join forces with others. There is power in numbers. You go. You may not be able to see me there, but know I am with you, always, mein Sohn.”

And with his last words to James, Hitler was gone; visibly gone and unbeknownst to James on a future ordinary day riddled with extraordinary circumstances his Fuhrer would be forgotten by him forever more. But Hitler’s face would not be replaced by another until sometime after the murder during his day of reckoning in the midst of the high profile trial.

“Murderer! Say her name!” Her mother yelled towards James from a courtroom bench.

Pictures of the victim laced the room, her goodness readily seen through her now dead eyes. Besides her family, intense grief was felt by even those who never knew her; palpably. James absorbed her. He was fascinated, captivated by her kind eyes. He studied them the way he had once studied his Fuhrer. He had seen them, and she his, through the windshield glass, right before he rammed his car into the crowd.

“Order in the court.” The judge pounded his gavel.

And at the sound of wood against stone, something in James broke and with his head in his handcuffed hands he did just that. Feeling no desire whatsoever to say goodbye forever to his former self or the sick mind that had molded his, repentance was understood, and he said her name.

“Heather Heyer.”

#HISTORICALFICTION

James Alex Fields Jr., 22, received a life sentence plus 419 years for killing Heather Heyer and injuring dozens of others during the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville on Aug. 12, 2017. Fields was sentenced to life in prison on 29 federal hate crime charges. Judge Richard Moore followed a state jury’s recommendation in handing down the sentence.