TW: gore, self-harm, abuse
The dreams were beautiful at first. Soft, white sand sifted between my toes as I waltzed about the beaches of Malé with a coconut in hand. The guides would say not to drink too much of it, but I’m untouchable here, so I sipped to my heart’s content as clear-blue water rolled over my feet. Seagulls flew in place against the swift breeze, the brushing hum of the palm trees replacing the flaps of their wings. The sun shined forever here but no heat suffocated the island, in fact, I remained paler than ever. The pits of the Grand Canyon of yesterdreams, as beautiful as they were – the thick, cunning knife of the Colorado river boring down the Arizona desert ever so softly – paled in comparison to the small fish littering the reefs, the pinky crabs burrowing, the desolate stretch of water, the empty city further inland looming behind me, twisted to my specificity.
I was naked most of the time in these dreams, no one was around to command me otherwise – unless I conjured them, of course. The wind in my undercarriage summoned freedom, a pride, a confession of dominance over my dreamscapes. In my most vulnerable form, I am king. And nothing is more beautiful than that. Admittedly, I would often consummate my reign with whatever Amazonian I could imagine. Soft, glistening skin, matching my own attire. Drawn to my hands as clay to its molder, the painter its brush. The harem squirms under my consequential breath, our simultaneous ecstasy measured only by brevity. These dreams are often cut short as my rapid heart rate jolts me awake just before the dams of pleasure crack at the seams. I felt a soft pressure in my chest, and a lone cloud invaded the sky, I’d been here a while.
I juggled a small, golden coin along my knuckles, then threw it up in the air. Tails. Threw it up again, tails. One more time, tails. It was time to wake up – forever a moment too soon. The island collapsed in on itself, turning to the mere blankness of my eyelids. I awoke to a pair of green eyes staring directly into mine, a flitting tail drumming against my stomach. The little loaf decided it was time to wake up and feed her, confirmed by a quiet meow as I sat up in bed. Nourishment made its rounds for the both of us, water as well, and I sat at my desk, taking note of the lock screen: a vineyard on the hills of a mountainous region where the clouds hang low, visitors are sparce, the trees sing the melancholy cicada’s song, and the wine is supple.
I logged into work, scrolling Facebook in another window, and playing sudoku in another. Shooting the occasional email, dodging a phone call here and there, and a full, exhausting eight hours at my desk dribbled on by, the idle cursor burned into my retinas. I count the hours until I can sleep again. At least one more meal and maybe a drink. As I clock out, I heard a knock at the door. I check the spyglass – no one. I shrugged, poured myself some wine and heated up some ramen. A few episodes of Netflix later, it was time to sleep again. With the aid of melatonin, I was quickly transported to my laptop’s temporary screensaver.
Smashing bundles of grapes under my feet, I expedited my own wine. Terrible, a bit funky. I ran down each row of the vineyard, which seemed to endlessly stretch past the expanse of the mountains. When I grew tired of the vineyard, I wandered through a cottage placed conveniently at the end of my grapevine. It was supremely comfortable, the lit fireplace frolicking along the inside of the lain brick that seemed significantly larger than it looked on the outside. It housed a singular bed with and a small table and a single chair with shelves of various honeys and meads and preservatives hiding in the shadows of the straw roof.
I sat at the table, conjuring a mug of deep, rich, frothy hot chocolate. I sipped, chocolate, but no warmth, so I left the rest to fade into oblivion. The bed called my name – figuratively, literally, I don’t know. I found myself drawn to it; it was as natural as falling asleep.
I awoke. But the plain, modern interior design I’d both grown to hate and expected to see as I left these illusions, was absent. The heat of a roaring fire in the hearth scorched my face. I began to sweat ferociously, the intense flagrancy of these oppressive comforts becoming insurmountable. I was unable to move, paralyzed, the weight of my phantom limbs stuck firmly beneath skin, failing even to flinch. No matter how I strained against my paralysis, as if glued in place, my body remained still, incapable, though, my eyes open and entirely reliable.
How quickly I wished I was blind. A small, round shadow danced along the walls, riding the rhythmic lull of the flames. The sun that once shone through the small window was gone, it was dark, the frigid night caressing the stone cottage. Its heart beat strong still, the fire growing larger even as the shadow played amongst the firewood. With it, fear, my body trembled as it approached bedside, a harrowing despair hung near my face. A whip of thunder cracked the night air, causing me to flinch. I moved and the nerves flooded my body as I scrambled from the bed.
I awoke, still in the cottage, now absent of the heat drenching me just blinks before. I jumped up and pulled the gold coin out of my pocket. I frantically flipped it three times, each result more relieving than the next as the final tails pulled me from, at last, my dream and into the land of the living. The sheets were sweat stained, and my pillows strewn across the room. I shook my head vigorously to shake off the weight that sagged at the curve of my head, begging me to lie back down. I decided to lay off the dreams for a while.
Those nights were long and fitful as I tossed and tuned for what seemed like an eternity before falling into an unrefreshing, dreamless doze. The days drug on forever, I even went back into the office for a while. I couldn’t believe how unbelievably dull this life was compared to my dreams. There’s only so many ways to ask, “Hey, how’re you doing?” before I lose my mind. At first, I was ashamed at how I little I cared for these little social hors d'oeuvres. But I saw how my coworkers looked at me when they thought I wasn’t paying attention — their faces formed a scowl in my peripheral, their voices mumbling, grumbling as I turned my back, refusing to engage in their fireside chats. They hated me, but I didn’t care.
No, I daydreamed. Or I tried, anyway. It made the day go by faster imagining the absurd unfold before my eyes. In the mornings, I start by jumping from the top floor. Just before I hit the ground, I grab the side of the building, taking out a few windows, and grind myself to halt like a superhero. During lunch, the feasts I imagine are of decadent grandeur, my plate piled high with smoky steak and flaky bread and chalices of wine — much better than my feet wine.
Sometimes, my coworkers caught the brunt of my imagination. A timely foot as Brad from accounting passed my desk causing him to crash to the ground with his scalding coffee, a blizzard of copy paper (and an unfortunate amount of paper-cuts) rained over Janet, and a couple of screws from my boss’s chair went missing followed by a yelp and grumble. I could yell as many expletives as I liked here and no one could stop me. Even Sasha, a dashing brunette from marketing who often pretended I didn’t exist, found me irresistible on a quick bathroom break.
However, these daydreams are absent of the vivacity and lucidity of my night dreams. The sensations lack any form of authenticity that defined my night dreams. I just knew, which, beyond my control, drew me back in. A yearning, born from the mundanity of the office, birthed more vivid dreams than ever — even without the melatonin I’d grown dependent upon. My first dream back was unforgettable, for it spurned questions of my sanity, my livelihood.
An ear-piercing screech of some bird tumbled from the canopy of a dense forest. It set off a chain reaction, a chorus of squawking, from deep within the jungle. My clothes were gone, though, not by choice — I would’ve much preferred at least shoes as I waded through fallen branches, thick brush, and what I presume to be animal droppings. I materialized a machete to cut through the brush as it gashed away at my body, the scraps cutting deeper and deeper, yet no blood leaked. I think I hardly noticed the pain as a constant buzz dashed in and out of earshot. I swatted quick, and often, to no avail.
I thought, rather, I felt that there was something deeper within the jungle, the same pestering, hopelessly earnest yearning propelled me forward to treasures unknown. My heart raced as the raucous animal kingdom seemed to home in on me. The buzz grew louder, the cry of birds echoed with their feverous dance amongst the branches far above me. A sloth dangled from a tree, its long nails grasping onto a branch sticking precariously from a rather pitiful tree. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach, especially as I traveled further towards the innards of this labyrinth, that I was being followed. Just over my shoulder, a shadow followed, and when I snapped my head in its direction, disappeared.
Only after I had become the Man of One Thousand Cuts did I happen upon a clearing. Within this respite, a bundle of snakes, writhing in an oddly familiar fashion. I blinked and the scales turned to the raw flesh of a being, I thought human, but its allure beyond that of earthly pleasures. It smiled, a sultry grimace, shiny gold and diamond jewelry decorating pearl canines behind plump, rose lips. It was nude, posed as a Baroque muse upon layers of large palm leaves. Its languid figure drew me forth as it opened its legs, a consolation for my treacherous, uncertain pursuit.
As I lied down, it stared at me, with its porous, blue eyes and a chill ran down my spine. I froze. I couldn’t move, no matter how much I wanted to, for it was the dominion of my lust. It took a few moments for me to realize the emotion I felt from this being was fear. Its Medusian stare gripped my heart and pumped it to the pace of its own. Only then, did the sharp-jawed and cutting eyes of the being become sinister. It exuded hatred. The chill became frigid, paralyzing, my mouth hung agape. The shadow that possessed my peripheral finally came to the forefront.
Hazardous yellow eyes peered through the surrounding brush, just past the being underneath me. It slowly approached the clearing, its tail flicking curiously behind its strong, striped body. The behemoth moved slowly, calculated its every step with precision, almost snake like as it swayed side to side, each foot replacing the last. It bared its canines as it approached my face, sniffing my hair, the hot air blowing from its nose warming my frozen stature. I didn’t know if I was able to move, but I wouldn’t dare.
The being beneath me began to chuckle and I blinked. The following commotion happened faster than I could comprehend. The tiger pounced, and I think I blacked out. My vision went black, a maniacal laughter, a raucous snarl, and my screams. The pain was excruciating, certainly more painful than anything I had felt in real life. It gnashed away at my neck, tearing my esophagus from my throat, leaving me to suffer in silence. It tore me apart, leaving no limb untouched, then feasting on my intestines. Eventually shock set in, and I prayed that I would wake up.
When I regained my vision, I was staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, my limbs still attached to my body and intestines tucked neatly beneath my skin. I breathed a sigh of relief and scrambled to get ready for work, the office would take my mind off that awful dream. The world seemed to move in slow motion around me as I made my way in, my mind racing laps around the mundanity unfolding at my feet. The quiet, rickety subway ride and the street level festival of honking cars all seemed to melt away as I relived the tiger attack over and over. It was traumatizing.
Yet, exhilarating. That visceral pain was the realest anything has every felt, and I was almost terrified to admit that I needed more. The adrenaline coursed through my veins for days afterward until a complete crash. I don’t remember if I even slept during this time, just an incessant restlessness. My dreams were only more absurd from then on, though none more visceral or urgent than that beauty and its pet.
I incited fiery riots, dredged through the trenches of the next world war, daring the most ferocious of soldiers to stand forth, face my unfathomable wrath in the quest for more. Even summoning the pathetic little arms of a T. Rex lacked the excitement I needed for it all felt artificial. My absurdity relapsed past my night terrors and into my real life. I lost my job after stapling my hands one too many times and giving Sasha a slap on the ass that resulted in both a slap and punch across the back of my head. My only regret: that I wasn’t conscious to continue the fight.
But it still wasn’t enough. I considered the cutting of wrists, the punching of walls, and more but I worried the fragility of my mere mortal body would give before I reached enlightenment. The solutions I pondered often seemed crude, even too autoerotic at times, thus leading to the only answer that made sense. No one would understand the quarrel buried deep within my skin, and that’s okay.
This little life, how pathetically boring, bore unto my soul a curse.
So as I write this, and by the time you read this, I will be dead, for that is the only permanent solution to my insatiable desire for more. I will have already stepped off the tallest building in the city, cherishing every moment of my freefall until the hard, cool pavement kisses my cheek and my memories explode into stars in my eyes and all over the street below.