||[Jul. 20th, 2009|06:27 pm]
My imagination can be so vivid when it wants to. I expect a severe emotional response when I watch a good movie or read a good book. Whether it be to cry my eyes out at PS I Love You time and time again, to be terrified at the idea of an apocolypse that leaves the world so dilapitated only few survive, or to swoon at a chivalrous hero like Mr. Darcy. These are the creations of minds much more creatively attuned than mine. |
But when I dream.
Some people don't remember their dreams. I say that they are lucky. Most of the ideas that stick to the inside of my brain with an epoxy are ghastly things. I've even stopped sharing most of them most of the time. My words are not quite effective enough to convey the severity of the images in my mind. I'm certainly not an artist, so i can't paint them. My songwriting is too technical, so I can't communicate it through music. I find that I'm at a loss and i just get to suffer through the "hangover" that applies itself throughout the waking day after the dream.
This time, again, my words barely ever do them justice, it's 5:38 and I still haven't been able to shake this one, so I'm just going to write a bare bones outline.
Two girls, one of which is me, are in high school. They sleep over each other's houses often and tend to know each other inside and out. Laughter is an activity all its own. Once they start, not much is needed to keep them going. Life is light and conversation is surface. The bond is such, however, that one girl knows what the other is thinking before the other even thinks it. Because they can predict each other's moods they can usually stave off the less than exhilerating ones.
At some point, the laughter dwindles. The girls see each other nearly as often but the connection starts to fade into the background. It's like an old memory that eventually loses its color, vibrance, detail. Now and then, one of them gets into a bad mood and the other can't get her out of it. A biting remark mars their usually optimistic and supportive rapport.
My friend begins to develop a permanent sneer. She ignores my requests to help. All usual attempts at cheerfulness seem to hit a wall. The malaise is infectious. Around town people start to go missing. Noone we really know well. Too many for it to simply be people taking off because of the good weather.
We have this fort that we go to. It's actually a simple shed, at the back of her backyard, pushed into the woods. Her parents were no longer using it and at about 13 we both got it into our heads to set up house. It was more accessible than a tree house and already built. We decked it out with a little cot, shelves with food, books, a boombox, toys. Once I got there before her and I found a t-shirt with some blood on it. I thought nothing serious though, considering she was a clutz. A week or so later that summer, I found a blade...similar to those that an old-fashioned barber would use for a straight shave. Again, I thought it was just a sweet addition to our survival gear.
When I realized what was happening, I was already a part of it. We were 17 and she had this old 1940 style Forld. You know, the ones with the giant rounded hood. It was painted with dark charcoal spray paint. She had rebuilt what needed to be rebuilt and drove it everywhere she could. One night, I found some limbs behind the back seats. yes, limbs. Decaying ones...It wasn't like it was in the movies now. Rubbery and blood covered. The skin was like paper and covered in an acidic gooey mess, like the fluid around chicken when it goes bad in the fridge. of course there was dried blood in the corners and cracks of the back of the car. She acted like it was no big deal.
It gets blurry here, but I recall arguing with her about what in the world was happening and how could she have the heart to do such things. She kept the scowl and denied having anything to do with it. We're standing outside the car now, and she's got a duffel bag that she throws up on the hood. It's not quite zippered and someone's decapitated head rolls out and over the front of the car. It hits the ground with a sick thud, and I simply scream. At this point, we're lit up. Cops surround us. I am petrified that I will be accused but they've heard the argument and have simply been waiting for some sort of actual confession. They handcuff her in the headlights of her Ford and she finally lets her forehead smooth, and says "oops!"
I'm questioned and they make me tell them about where we spend our time and who with. I'm asked to show them the "fort." It's not as I remembered from our previous sleepover. It's painted in blood spatter. More limbs are there, cut from the bodies. She has a collection of those blades, some are actually stuck into the meat of these people, like they belonged to that particular kill. She's hauled off to an institution due to her nonchalance. I'm let off the hook since I was simply too stupid to realize all these people that have gone missing are because of my sociopath best friend. I couldn't understand when she would have time to do it though. It just didn't make sense that we would spend so much time together, be going to school every day, and she would be leading this double life. She never disappeared strangely. I never saw her reading any mystery/crime thrillers. These events were impossible to pull off without some real research or attention to detail. Attention requires time and she didn't seem to have any of that. I'm confused, afraid, devestated, lonely, and completely lacking any confidence in my ability to trust a soul.
Weeks, maybe months later, I am at her parent's house. Maybe to return something of hers. It's been too painful and terrifying to go there up until now. I arrive unexpectedly and knock on the door of her parent's house. They don't answer. It's unlocked. For years, I would simply walk in and help myself to whatever I wanted/needed. Her house was my house and vice versa. I opened and called out their names. No answer. I only heard what sounded like a sander upstairs. Perhaps they were redecorating her room? Maybe her dad had a workshop? I tried to quell my panic with these very rational and possible explanations. I walked up the stairs steadily, down the hall, and around the corner.
She had been in training. The same description I had used for the police of our fort could be applied to her bedroom. The ceilings and walls were splattered with paint halfway up. From there down, they were slathered in it. Some was dried and dark brown and some was fresh and, well, blood red. They weren't using a sander, but a hand saw. Cutting apart the pieces of another skeleton. Chunks of flesh were scattered across the floor, like they fell haphazardly as the hand saw spun through the ligaments attaching it to the bone. They didn't see me right away. I was frozen, halfway around that corner. When her father looked up, he sighed, then grinned and started after me.
That's when I woke up.