jchrisobrien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-09-18 09:09 am
jchrisobrien) wrote2002-09-18 09:09 am
Dream: Disturbing Behavior
Sometimes you can tell when something is going to go wrong. The images in front of you may look normal, but they won't feel that way. They feel like sour milk, bad breath, a lurch in your belly. I opened the door to the house and found books behind it. Rows and rows of book, their spines weathered with age. Hardback volumes everyone, books that were meant to stay. I pull a few volumes out, and see a room beyond them, feel a rush of stale air on my face. I shove the books back on impulse, and step over then into a small room.
Books like every inch of the walls in this room. Books line the stairs up to the next floor. Books as far as the eye can see, bathed in dust. Somebody was once a great reader , but no longer (the narrator's eyes widen, it all falls into place) I walk up the stairs into the next room. I know an elderly couple lives here or once did. It has the smell of aged flesh and poor ventilation. The counters are covered with knick knacks, trinkets, curios. There is an entire collection of little black statuettes, the quaintly racist kind you don't see anymore. Books and magazines are stacked beside the couches, the chairs, on and under the end tables. Clothing is discarded on the floor. There is no television, no radio, not even a phonograph.
I turn to the next room and see and empty bed, half made. I know for certain that someone died in that bed. Light pushes through the curtains, anemic and green tinted. I pass onward and upward, climbing is important, ascending. The upper floor looks a little more modern, and cleaner. Orange milk crates hold a collection of papers and books. There's a lamp, and a small television. And an open window! Sweet air blows through the room, I take in deep lungfuls of it.
That's when I hear the sounds from downstairs. Two men, arguing. No, not arguing. One is snapping and spitting out hateful little comments. The other one is gasping and complying. Pain? Lust? I can't tell which, but I can't stay here either. Panic chokes the last gasp of sweet air from me, and I run through the window, half running, half falling down the steep roof of the house. Mocking, echoing, laughter follows me, the smell of books and just and lemon. I throw myself from the roof top.
But I don't fall. I'm floating, then flying. I laugh in the face of that fear and malice, and fly from the house. When some people fly in their dreams, its very elegant and super hero like, they just point their arms and the landscape moves around them. Not with me. Flying is like swimming. I have to flap my arms, pinwheel them, the butterfly stroke fifteen feet above the ground. When I'm not pushing against the air, I'm falling. So I serpentine my way through the busy streets, the people don't pay me any mind at all.
A man with a clip board looks up and asks me to come down. I ignore him. He stops the next man who walks by, a burly fellow, long haired, muscular. "Where do you think you're going?" he sternly asks. "Get back in line." The man meekly complies. "They always think the can get away, but the Collector always gets them." He checks off his
form, and the two depart.
That's when it hits me. The man in the house. The Collector. He lost some one once, an old boyfriend, a lover. But the Collector doesn't lose anything, or anyone. So he brings men back to his house, deluded into thinking he's bringing back his lost love. He punishes them for leaving. Over and over. Can I run from the Collector? Can I ever really escape him?
It's getting harder and harder to fly. I flap my arms manically, but I continue to descend.
Into the city.
.....................
*rolls eyes... Welcome to my freaking subconscious
Books like every inch of the walls in this room. Books line the stairs up to the next floor. Books as far as the eye can see, bathed in dust. Somebody was once a great reader , but no longer (the narrator's eyes widen, it all falls into place) I walk up the stairs into the next room. I know an elderly couple lives here or once did. It has the smell of aged flesh and poor ventilation. The counters are covered with knick knacks, trinkets, curios. There is an entire collection of little black statuettes, the quaintly racist kind you don't see anymore. Books and magazines are stacked beside the couches, the chairs, on and under the end tables. Clothing is discarded on the floor. There is no television, no radio, not even a phonograph.
I turn to the next room and see and empty bed, half made. I know for certain that someone died in that bed. Light pushes through the curtains, anemic and green tinted. I pass onward and upward, climbing is important, ascending. The upper floor looks a little more modern, and cleaner. Orange milk crates hold a collection of papers and books. There's a lamp, and a small television. And an open window! Sweet air blows through the room, I take in deep lungfuls of it.
That's when I hear the sounds from downstairs. Two men, arguing. No, not arguing. One is snapping and spitting out hateful little comments. The other one is gasping and complying. Pain? Lust? I can't tell which, but I can't stay here either. Panic chokes the last gasp of sweet air from me, and I run through the window, half running, half falling down the steep roof of the house. Mocking, echoing, laughter follows me, the smell of books and just and lemon. I throw myself from the roof top.
But I don't fall. I'm floating, then flying. I laugh in the face of that fear and malice, and fly from the house. When some people fly in their dreams, its very elegant and super hero like, they just point their arms and the landscape moves around them. Not with me. Flying is like swimming. I have to flap my arms, pinwheel them, the butterfly stroke fifteen feet above the ground. When I'm not pushing against the air, I'm falling. So I serpentine my way through the busy streets, the people don't pay me any mind at all.
A man with a clip board looks up and asks me to come down. I ignore him. He stops the next man who walks by, a burly fellow, long haired, muscular. "Where do you think you're going?" he sternly asks. "Get back in line." The man meekly complies. "They always think the can get away, but the Collector always gets them." He checks off his
form, and the two depart.
That's when it hits me. The man in the house. The Collector. He lost some one once, an old boyfriend, a lover. But the Collector doesn't lose anything, or anyone. So he brings men back to his house, deluded into thinking he's bringing back his lost love. He punishes them for leaving. Over and over. Can I run from the Collector? Can I ever really escape him?
It's getting harder and harder to fly. I flap my arms manically, but I continue to descend.
Into the city.
.....................
*rolls eyes... Welcome to my freaking subconscious
no subject
I love the detail about the "quaintly racist statues..."
Re:
There was a such a feeling of dread and foreboding in that house. No lights, just the natural light filtered through the curtains. It got better the closer to the roof I got, but ... whew!
umm... I
Re: umm... I
no subject
i blame spending two hours a day, five days a week, plus meets on almost every weekend, from when i was seven until i was fourteen.