(Another entry I am posting for someone else...this one is for Bebe. If anyone else is having problems posting, please email me. Thanks! -ern)
As a teenager I could control my dreams to some extent and was fascinated by those that could arrange to meet up with others in dreams and then both independently recount adventures they had shared when they met up. As such, I have always listened to my dreams and self-analysed, when you look within, it’s usually easy to see a trigger or answer to a question. Said the person that isn’t an analyst.
I have 3 dreams in my life, one is a reoccurring fever driven dream, one a pregnancy hormone nightmare and the other changed my life. Below is the other.
Unwanted Visitors
Sitting crossed legged in my armchair the TV illuminates the darkness as it plays my favourite show. Sipping steaming tea from a China cup, laughing out loud at the log lady, my entertainment is interrupted by a bare knuckle rat a ta tat on my front door. Strange, no buzzer. Putting down the cup, squeezing my tired toes into moccasins I wrap my cardigan around me as I walk down the cool hallway towards the front door. Stretching out my hand above the barely warm storage heaters as I pass, time to change the setting to winter.
Who was it? It had to be a neighbour as the flats had an expensive security system; an unwritten rule agreed by all 6 residents said that if you didn’t know the person buzzing you didn’t let them in. We had a footballer and his wife living on the top floor and he had been hassled a few times by fans so we had a good system installed to protect us all.
In heels I could barely see through the spy hole, in slippers it wasn’t even worth a try and I didn’t put the safety chain on the door, pulling it towards me, I expected to see a friend.
As the door was half way open the metal handle was wrenched out of my hand. Shocked by the force I let go. I tried to see who was on the other side but the door was quickly thrown back at me, a battering ram. It hit my chin, nose and hard in the chest. Tasting blood I was thrown back against the wall. Winded and for a moment unable to move. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. The only sound was my heart pounding in my ears as the pendulum of the Grandfather clock swung from side to side it’s usually proud song mute. Something warm and wet ran down my face freely.
There was a crack and blackness surrounded me as this dark shadow grabbed my shoulders and dragged me, slamming my body into each stretch of magnolia wall, a rag doll, towards the open door of the sitting room. With each body blow a sound emitted from this person, a pained low rumble, like an injured animal.
“Who are you?” I screamed. “You are making a mistake, why are you doing this?”
If I knew who it was, I would know why they were here, maybe calm them down.
In the sitting room playing a game of push and pull our clammy fingers locked together. I had to get to the light switch; had to see whom this intruder was. I would understand then. Bending his fingers back until a snap came and a cry of pain, flying towards the light switch, as it flicked on I turned to face this shadow. He swung a wooden chair at the ceiling smashing the light and returning us to his blackness that threatened to engulf me.
He grabbed me again, I grabbed back and started to pull him towards the front door. I don’t know where the strength came from. I was fighting for my life and I wasn’t giving in.
“Who are you?” I screamed, pulling, dragging, towards the door.
His feet slid on the carpet as I continued to scream.
“Who are you?” I shook him as hard as I could.
The light was on in the hallway, glowing through the cracks around the door, slightly ajar. Not far now, understanding would come.
I yanked the door open and pulled him closer, closer to the light, his face was turned away. Grabbing at his face my fingernails cut in to his flesh, twisting his face to the light. I would see.
Deflated, nauseous, my arms fell to my sides.
Then came the fatal blow.
My killer was me.
This is 16 years old and I can still feel the cold metal door handle being pulled from my hand and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I don’t know if this is too much or too personal or if I should invent things that aren’t true then I am not giving too much of myself. It would be interesting to hear how others approach writing they post on the internet.
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3 comments:
This was awesome! I found my heart pounding as if I were really there. You definately have 'mad-writing skills!' Great work...I'm thirsty for more... :)
i know what you mean about posting personal stuff on the internet. as for me, i have to imagine anyone in the planet being able to read the stuff i write, and ask if i feel comfortable with that. some people may feel totally fine with baring their soul, their inner-most thoughts online, but would be mortified if they wrote something negative about a friend and that person somehow read it. someone else may be just the opposite, not caring about offending someone but terrified if people actually knew what was going on in their mind. i think you need to develop your own set of guidelines (how would you feel if your mother read this, or your boss, etc.) and then stick to them, no matter what. that's just my 2 cents on the matter.
as for your writing... awesome! it felt stark, raw, almost naked...and that was the voice i could hear as i read your entry. this will be interesting to see if our voices carry over to other writing prompts or if they'll change each month.
You have a great writing voice. I found the whole episode very gripping, and I had to keep myself from scrolling down to the end too soon. I look forward to reading more of your writing!
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