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thedarksiren2History: I began having this dream when I was about six years old, and continued to be haunted with it until my early teens. I eventually learned enough about lucid dreaming that when the antagonist appeared again, when I was about fifteen, I was able to foil his plans. More on that later though.
I wake to the sound of distant anguish. I am not sure how I know it is anguish, being that my six year-old mind can barely comprehend sadness, let alone anguish. Nevertheless, it is anguish, I am certain of this.
I look around; my sister Julene is sleeping soundly in her sleeping bag, as is her friend Mimi beside her on the floor. I can hear crickets chirping from outside, and smell the smoke of my mom’s final cigarette hours before; I have a very good sense of smell, and I like to think of it as a special gift from the Gods. After all, not many people can smell a ladybug in the middle of a forest!
I look at Julene’s face, and wonder what she dreams. Does she wish to find a prince as I do? Does she wish to be pretty, to have everyone like her? Does she wish to be rescued from her tower?
I stretch my arms above my head, sitting up in my sleeping bag. I look at its details, and pretend for a moment that I am emerging from my cocoon, and that I can spread my wings to dry in the thick air, and then fly far away from this place where my sister didn’t invite me.
She never seems to want me around, and all I really wish for is to look up to her and see my reflection in her eyes. Instead, I find a cold darkness there, and I look away dutifully or face being taunted or locked away in the tree house for hours.
I stand up, the living room spinning a bit because I stood up too quickly. I am standing at a crossroads of sorts, between the main hallway that leads to the back of the house and my parent’s bedroom, and the small walkway that is the entrance to our large home. I have no need for my parents right now, so I turn my head to the right, my feet and body following suit; Nothing but quiet in the Mitchell home.
There is that horrific wailing in the distance, however. It is far, far away, beyond the crickets and the lingering cigarette smoke; but it feels so close to me I can hardly stand still! So I head toward the front door, my right hand tracing the ledge of the large planter, dabbing its forefinger into the soil, feeling the dampness, the grainy texture; the earthy smell and cold flesh of it on my hands helps me remember that I am real.
I peek through the peephole; everything seems to be grayish out there, outside where the sound is coming from. I take a step back, looking around because I know it is dark, but inside it is not so gray; even in the darkness, there is color, warmth. Outside there is nothing but cold and gray.
As I open the door, I come to realize that curiosity was the hunter in all of this, and I, its prey.
Sparks begin to fly around with the squealing of the door. I look to my right, just over the planter; Julene and Mimi are still sleeping, quietly, peacefully. I hear an electrical zapping swoosh past my ear, and I turn to face a reflective wall, yet it is almost like those two-way mirrors in movies, only with defect. I can see my reflection, colorful, vivid, breathing in its surface, but I can also see the gray world outside, beyond the wall. One last look behind me, I take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I take a single right-step forward into the silvery liquid unknown.
Toenail to toe, foot to ankle…I feel the surges like drowning in water. I am gasping, wishing I had not moved forward, that I had stayed safe in my cocoon. My wings begin to tear with their wet frailty, and in as much as I am pulling to move backwards in time, I am pushed and pulled by a force beyond the reflective wall; the gray energy takes control of my body, consuming my color, my life-force. I can feel my bones changing, the structures of my viscera transforming to meet the needs of my new environment. My lungs grow taut, pressured, pushed upon – I cannot breathe, I am suffocating!
No wait, there is air here. It is just smoggy, the air of filth and decay. I am hypnotized by the sounds of my new world and the deep, knowing part of me wishes to escape this bleakness, but I am engulfed by the darkness, leaving my life as I have known it behind.
I face the many trees that fill the Mitchell front yard. The orange-blossoms have all withered, and the usual sweetness of their bouquet eludes my hungry nostrils. Instead, there is a foul stench in the murky air, the smog thickening, and my nose burning from the wretched stink. I remind myself that even the most horrible smell is a smell, and it reminds me of how lucky I am, and how very much alive.
I walk northwest to the end of the semi-circled driveway, and start my journey towards the screams. I can still see other people’s eyes peeking through their window shades, pulling them closed tightly so as not to get any of the madness in; I, however, seem to yearn for it, and as I walk down Staunton Hill Dr., I come to understand the true nature of lust.
I wound up taking the shortcut, crossing Highway 01 to walk through the car dealership instead of another mile down the hill. It seems funny to me, that I must walk another mile on one side of the street, yet by crossing I am able to hop-skip-jump my way into the Moorly Shopping Center. Nothing has been normal since I was asleep in my bag on the floor, however, so I shrug the confusion from my mind and walk through the lot where cars have been ransacked and windows have been smashed to shards of memory, glistening in dank mists. They twinkle in the dim moonlight left in the sky though, and I smile to myself, making a wish on an impostor’s star.
Suddenly, my attention drifts away from the glittering glass. I am instead drawn to streaks of electric light, like fireworks, shooting out from the arcade across the street. I forget the wishes I have made, forget that I am surrounded by gray, cold hunger, and walk hurriedly toward that place where blue and red streaks come flashing out with each scream. I know where I am going for the first time all night.
As I approach the doorway, the shots of light fly past my small frame in shocks; they shimmer and spark, making zoom-noises as they pass. I just stand there, waiting for something to happen, frightened and curious. A crackle sounds, and a streak of colored-spark burns my skin; I can feel that color command me to keep on going, to move forward, inside the arcade. Almost beyond my control, my feet begin to move, and I am drowning again in the surges, the waves of energy and color that I had forgotten at home.
My eyes close in reflex, and then there is silence.
When the fear gives in to curiosity, my eyes open to see what appears to be the same old Moorly Arcade. The games are jabbering, flashing lights, proclaiming, “Super-punch!” as a character hits his nemesis. There is no one is around however, not within my sight at least. I begin to search, walking slowly, cautiously forward and inside. The screams have ceased, yet there is energy in the air greater than I am, stronger and more treacherous than movies about men with razors for fingers.
Driven still by an unseen puppet-master, I walk carefully to the Centipede game and push start. The bugs begin their descent toward the ship, and I push the buttons like a maniac, shooting at them until they are all but gone, and the joystick larger than I remembered. There was a time when my small hands could wrap around it easily.
Then I hear him breathing behind me.
The game freezes, mid-shot, and my grip on the joystick strained to the point of my fingers turning white from the pressure. Suddenly, smoothly, I feel large hands walk from my shoulder blades to my biceps, and they grip me securely so that I cannot move.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, a raspy voice and cold air escaping him. I nod and turn to face him, only my head lowered, bowed before him. He laughs, bends at his knees and lifts me up, carrying my small frame in his large, gangly arms to a large pinball machine where I lay to rest.
Everything is cold, silver glints blinding my eyes as razor-sharp edges spread my flesh from naval to sternum. He is hungry, insistent; I know not what I will become, as darkness consumes me between rips and tears, blood spills and slurps.
I come to awareness on the walk back home, up Staunton Hill Dr., light drizzling rain making chase of droplets down the road behind me. I do not see the blood on the street, my breadcrumbs in the snow. My legs are so heavy, sodden and sore. I am emptiness as I open my front door and re-enter a color-filled world, my body, a memory of gray.
Sitting at the dinner table, Julene complains about having to take me everywhere, and her friend laughs at her cruel jokes. Mom tells them both to stop as she places a plate before me; pork chops, corn and white rice, one of my favorites. I am numb, however, and do not move to eat.
Voices are rising, taunts becoming more unbearable, except I do not hear them clearly. The world is a muffled mess, and I would certainly begin sobbing if I felt anything for more than seconds. Then, Mom’s hands touch my arm, and I am back at the arcade, his mangled, distorted face licking the speckles of blood from my cheeks.
“Dawn, honey, are you all right?” she asks.
I try to raise my eyes, to tell her I need help, that I love her and will miss her terribly. All ideas as these are futile, however, and as I make one last attempt to communicate through raspy lungs, my body falls forward, face-first into the buttery-rice, air slipping from my body, a hollowed shell, lifeless and cold.
~*~*~*~*~
In a lucid dream state, I eventually tore the large ball at the end of the joystick on the Centipede game off, pushed myself forward as hard as I could and stabbed myself on the stick, laughing at his horror...he could not have me forever after all.
I wake to the sound of distant anguish. I am not sure how I know it is anguish, being that my six year-old mind can barely comprehend sadness, let alone anguish. Nevertheless, it is anguish, I am certain of this.
I look around; my sister Julene is sleeping soundly in her sleeping bag, as is her friend Mimi beside her on the floor. I can hear crickets chirping from outside, and smell the smoke of my mom’s final cigarette hours before; I have a very good sense of smell, and I like to think of it as a special gift from the Gods. After all, not many people can smell a ladybug in the middle of a forest!
I look at Julene’s face, and wonder what she dreams. Does she wish to find a prince as I do? Does she wish to be pretty, to have everyone like her? Does she wish to be rescued from her tower?
I stretch my arms above my head, sitting up in my sleeping bag. I look at its details, and pretend for a moment that I am emerging from my cocoon, and that I can spread my wings to dry in the thick air, and then fly far away from this place where my sister didn’t invite me.
She never seems to want me around, and all I really wish for is to look up to her and see my reflection in her eyes. Instead, I find a cold darkness there, and I look away dutifully or face being taunted or locked away in the tree house for hours.
I stand up, the living room spinning a bit because I stood up too quickly. I am standing at a crossroads of sorts, between the main hallway that leads to the back of the house and my parent’s bedroom, and the small walkway that is the entrance to our large home. I have no need for my parents right now, so I turn my head to the right, my feet and body following suit; Nothing but quiet in the Mitchell home.
There is that horrific wailing in the distance, however. It is far, far away, beyond the crickets and the lingering cigarette smoke; but it feels so close to me I can hardly stand still! So I head toward the front door, my right hand tracing the ledge of the large planter, dabbing its forefinger into the soil, feeling the dampness, the grainy texture; the earthy smell and cold flesh of it on my hands helps me remember that I am real.
I peek through the peephole; everything seems to be grayish out there, outside where the sound is coming from. I take a step back, looking around because I know it is dark, but inside it is not so gray; even in the darkness, there is color, warmth. Outside there is nothing but cold and gray.
As I open the door, I come to realize that curiosity was the hunter in all of this, and I, its prey.
Sparks begin to fly around with the squealing of the door. I look to my right, just over the planter; Julene and Mimi are still sleeping, quietly, peacefully. I hear an electrical zapping swoosh past my ear, and I turn to face a reflective wall, yet it is almost like those two-way mirrors in movies, only with defect. I can see my reflection, colorful, vivid, breathing in its surface, but I can also see the gray world outside, beyond the wall. One last look behind me, I take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I take a single right-step forward into the silvery liquid unknown.
Toenail to toe, foot to ankle…I feel the surges like drowning in water. I am gasping, wishing I had not moved forward, that I had stayed safe in my cocoon. My wings begin to tear with their wet frailty, and in as much as I am pulling to move backwards in time, I am pushed and pulled by a force beyond the reflective wall; the gray energy takes control of my body, consuming my color, my life-force. I can feel my bones changing, the structures of my viscera transforming to meet the needs of my new environment. My lungs grow taut, pressured, pushed upon – I cannot breathe, I am suffocating!
No wait, there is air here. It is just smoggy, the air of filth and decay. I am hypnotized by the sounds of my new world and the deep, knowing part of me wishes to escape this bleakness, but I am engulfed by the darkness, leaving my life as I have known it behind.
I face the many trees that fill the Mitchell front yard. The orange-blossoms have all withered, and the usual sweetness of their bouquet eludes my hungry nostrils. Instead, there is a foul stench in the murky air, the smog thickening, and my nose burning from the wretched stink. I remind myself that even the most horrible smell is a smell, and it reminds me of how lucky I am, and how very much alive.
I walk northwest to the end of the semi-circled driveway, and start my journey towards the screams. I can still see other people’s eyes peeking through their window shades, pulling them closed tightly so as not to get any of the madness in; I, however, seem to yearn for it, and as I walk down Staunton Hill Dr., I come to understand the true nature of lust.
I wound up taking the shortcut, crossing Highway 01 to walk through the car dealership instead of another mile down the hill. It seems funny to me, that I must walk another mile on one side of the street, yet by crossing I am able to hop-skip-jump my way into the Moorly Shopping Center. Nothing has been normal since I was asleep in my bag on the floor, however, so I shrug the confusion from my mind and walk through the lot where cars have been ransacked and windows have been smashed to shards of memory, glistening in dank mists. They twinkle in the dim moonlight left in the sky though, and I smile to myself, making a wish on an impostor’s star.
Suddenly, my attention drifts away from the glittering glass. I am instead drawn to streaks of electric light, like fireworks, shooting out from the arcade across the street. I forget the wishes I have made, forget that I am surrounded by gray, cold hunger, and walk hurriedly toward that place where blue and red streaks come flashing out with each scream. I know where I am going for the first time all night.
As I approach the doorway, the shots of light fly past my small frame in shocks; they shimmer and spark, making zoom-noises as they pass. I just stand there, waiting for something to happen, frightened and curious. A crackle sounds, and a streak of colored-spark burns my skin; I can feel that color command me to keep on going, to move forward, inside the arcade. Almost beyond my control, my feet begin to move, and I am drowning again in the surges, the waves of energy and color that I had forgotten at home.
My eyes close in reflex, and then there is silence.
When the fear gives in to curiosity, my eyes open to see what appears to be the same old Moorly Arcade. The games are jabbering, flashing lights, proclaiming, “Super-punch!” as a character hits his nemesis. There is no one is around however, not within my sight at least. I begin to search, walking slowly, cautiously forward and inside. The screams have ceased, yet there is energy in the air greater than I am, stronger and more treacherous than movies about men with razors for fingers.
Driven still by an unseen puppet-master, I walk carefully to the Centipede game and push start. The bugs begin their descent toward the ship, and I push the buttons like a maniac, shooting at them until they are all but gone, and the joystick larger than I remembered. There was a time when my small hands could wrap around it easily.
Then I hear him breathing behind me.
The game freezes, mid-shot, and my grip on the joystick strained to the point of my fingers turning white from the pressure. Suddenly, smoothly, I feel large hands walk from my shoulder blades to my biceps, and they grip me securely so that I cannot move.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, a raspy voice and cold air escaping him. I nod and turn to face him, only my head lowered, bowed before him. He laughs, bends at his knees and lifts me up, carrying my small frame in his large, gangly arms to a large pinball machine where I lay to rest.
Everything is cold, silver glints blinding my eyes as razor-sharp edges spread my flesh from naval to sternum. He is hungry, insistent; I know not what I will become, as darkness consumes me between rips and tears, blood spills and slurps.
I come to awareness on the walk back home, up Staunton Hill Dr., light drizzling rain making chase of droplets down the road behind me. I do not see the blood on the street, my breadcrumbs in the snow. My legs are so heavy, sodden and sore. I am emptiness as I open my front door and re-enter a color-filled world, my body, a memory of gray.
Sitting at the dinner table, Julene complains about having to take me everywhere, and her friend laughs at her cruel jokes. Mom tells them both to stop as she places a plate before me; pork chops, corn and white rice, one of my favorites. I am numb, however, and do not move to eat.
Voices are rising, taunts becoming more unbearable, except I do not hear them clearly. The world is a muffled mess, and I would certainly begin sobbing if I felt anything for more than seconds. Then, Mom’s hands touch my arm, and I am back at the arcade, his mangled, distorted face licking the speckles of blood from my cheeks.
“Dawn, honey, are you all right?” she asks.
I try to raise my eyes, to tell her I need help, that I love her and will miss her terribly. All ideas as these are futile, however, and as I make one last attempt to communicate through raspy lungs, my body falls forward, face-first into the buttery-rice, air slipping from my body, a hollowed shell, lifeless and cold.
In a lucid dream state, I eventually tore the large ball at the end of the joystick on the Centipede game off, pushed myself forward as hard as I could and stabbed myself on the stick, laughing at his horror...he could not have me forever after all.
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think, think, think...
Date: 2003-12-04 04:12 pm (UTC)More. I like your lucid dream solution. It negates flesh while still allowing it it's significance in the scheme of things.
foreshadowing? preparation? strengthening?
very cool, my friend.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-04 04:52 pm (UTC)