The last image I have – the only image that remains – is having become aware of imminent danger in the split second before someone behind me pulls a plastic bag over my head and around my neck. Continue reading “Catching my breath”
I remember fondly when I used to have one dream at a time. Or occasionally, a dream within a dream.
They’d rarely make sense. The story line would seem choppy on waking, with all the sudden twists and turns, plot shifts and character changes. Continue reading “Dual processing”
In my dream, I visited my friend at his office. I rarely dream him, and when I do it’s always for an office visit. His office always looks the same in my dreams. It’s funny how consistent it is, when it’s so vastly different from the reality (I have, in fact, been to his real-life office, albeit some years ago). There’s always some mild sense of the disconnect between us; even in my dreams we’ve lost touch a bit. But even so, I always wake up feeling like it was nice to see him again.
That dreamvisit to that friend was probably prompted by the fact that I was going to be having lunch the next day with a mutual friend-and-colleague of ours, CC. Continue reading “Seeing CC (reunions and worry)”
At first, it’s just a conversation, albeit a risque one. He asks me a logistical question about a sexual scenario for which neither of us has any first-hand experience. By its nature, I doubt he has interest in acquiring such experience, so while the question surprises me out of left field, it’s non-threatening. He’s just genuinely curious. I’m not exactly sure why he’s asked me, of course I can’t answer his question, but it leads to further conversation. I turn over on my stomach, hands under my chin, as we talk.
I glance away from him for a moment. From somewhere behind me, he says, “I saw what you were wearing before. You looked slutty.” I have no idea what he’s referring to, but since I can’t imagine any other reason he’d say it, I assume he’s being playful. I turn over, smiling, about to ask him if he liked it…
But he is gone. Someone else is there instead.
The man sitting on the edge of the bed is holding a gun. He aims it point-blank at my face. The weapon is the only thing I can really focus on. He is saying something to me. I am not making out what, other than a general sense of condemnation. I am vaguely aware that I’m not in my bed anymore; not in my room any more. None of this matters. I don’t know who he is, but I know he’s going to shoot me.
There is no chance he’ll miss.
There is no chance of escape.
I’m going to die. I don’t even get to scream…
I wake up with a start, terrified and shaking. I am in my room, in my bed, safe. It’s hours until morning. I lay back down, drift back into sleep, where more unsettling dreams await, each one successively less dangerous, less vivid, less easily remembered.
In the morning, I am exhausted.