quirkytizzy: (Default)
I just woke up from one of the most horrifying, vivid nightmares I have ever had. So bad that an hour later, I still feel like throwing up. If I were smart, I'd leave it alone, and pray that in five years, ten years, the nightmare will fade and I will no longer remember it.

But I'm not particularly smart and I'm going to do what I've always done with the worst nightmares. I'm going to write it out. See if I can lance the nausea like a wound, and with a shower later, wash out the fear like an antiseptic.

The back of it )

The worst of it: As the sun began to fall, we were to move to a smaller building. To sing, to worship, to join the faith of over a hundred people into one grand shield. We started outside, walking the small forest between buildings, and the army came upon us.

At first, they simply marched through us, not seeing us. I could see the horror on the faces of the people around, as we could see THEM, but I wasn't worried. I was with people of True Faith. We would make it.

And then a young man, only in his very early twenties, on the phone with his girlfriend to help him through it, was asked one question. "Do you think you're a good person?", she asked, trying to reassure him.

"I am", he replied, "but sometimes...". He averted his eyes to the ground, as if trying desperately not to say something. "But sometimes...I have dark thoughts."

It was like some kind of magnet had been flipped on. I saw one army man, as soon as those words were uttered, whip his bony neck back towards us. He had heard what the young man said. His jaw dropped in an unholy shriek and the army was all over us.

A frenzy, a bezerker of thousands, dashing through the crowd. The press of their ghostly forms was so thick I couldn't see anything but white. I could hear, though. I heard screaming. I heard the sound of flesh tearing. I heard slaughter. I stood there, frozen, paralyzed, wondering why they were simply passing over me, around me, while I could hear so many others dying screaming.

God, the sounds echo even now. How can something you only dream be so LOUD?

In the dream, I eventually passed out, waking later in a small cottage room. I wandered out into the main room and my heart sank. There were only a handful of people in the room, faces pale, shaken...but alive.

"How many of us made it?" I asked. The pause, the silence between the question and the answer stretched an eternity.

"...seven," said a woman.

"Seven," I said. "Seven out of a hundred of us made it". A grief so deep I nearly dropped to my knees fell over me. Seven people. Out of so many, there had only been seven truly good people.

One of them, strangely enough, an ex-gang member who had been a hired murderer. He hadn't seemed particularly good when I first met him, as he'd been graphically open about how he used to terrify, torture, and kill his victims. I asked him how the hell he survived.

"I didn't care. I figured if I died, I was just paying the price for what I did." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "It would have been fair enough."

I looked around the cottage and saw the form of a corpse that someone had draped a white sheet over. I held the bottom of the sheet, thinking to flip it over and see who was beneath it.

"No." I dropped the sheet. It didn't matter whose face was under that sheet. They were dead and there was nothing I could do about it. What mattered was ahead of us. What mattered was the people who had survived.

I pointed to three people who had been with me all along. "You're coming with me." I told the remaining few that they were going home.

I had led the army to murder nearly a hundred people. Those deaths were on me. I had killed them. Had I simply pressed on, the army would never have detoured over the camp. They would still be alive.

I had killed them. Good people or not, they had still been people, people who likely did not deserve to die outside of some insane code of black and white. Their blood, their screams, their last moments spent in terror, were my fault.

I could not imagine why I'd survived. I did not...do not...consider myself a person of faith, or a person of shining goodness. I am human, beautiful and ugly, good and bad, evil and light.

My soul is not pure.

The other ugliest piece. I'd wandered outside for a moment, trying to breathe away the horror. I saw a piece of paper with words written on it, words smeared over with blood.

"Kenny wrote out his confessions," a man told me, startling me as he came up behind me. "I think he survived, but..." There were two lines of arterial red leading off into the forest, as if someone had slit their wrists and crawled away.

I looked away from the paper fluttering in the grass.

"We don't have time to look for him. We have to go."

Why do I have dreams like this? Is my brain so broken? Is there some guilt buried so deep that it only comes crawling out in my sleep? Have the recent near-death experiences drawn out some fear of the afterlife, of where I would go? A fear that I simply don't want to deal with and so it only comes out in my sleep?

Are demons and angels real, and for some reason, I can only see them in my sleep? I DO NOT BELIEVE in demons, angels, God or Gods. But sometimes the dreams are so vivid. I can still HEAR the sounds of slaughter two hours after waking up. I can only wonder if what I am seeing is actually real on some level.

It was only a dream. That's what I'm telling myself. That's what I tell myself every time. It was only a dream.

It wasn't real.

It was only a dream.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Thank you, Nosswhispers, for your concern. There's just been little worth reporting on the last week or two. I visited with an old friend yesterday, which was lovely. I painted my nails in the French Manicure style. I rarely go with something so mild, but there is a reason why it's a classic. Very pretty.

Energy levels still persist at low tide. Winter. It's always winter, that's the excuse. Or reason. Or something.

The nightmares have made their return, now as life and the new relationship are beginning to settle out. Jesse sits with me when I wake up shouting. I've been so lucky in that all of my lovers have been gentle concerning my nightmares. I requested some pie and Jesse had that right away for me. The boost in blood sugar helps and the sweetness is comforting.

I'm lucky. I'm so lucky.

They come in groups, the nightmares. Several for a week's span and then none for weeks following. I wish I could figure out why my brain does it that way.

They're like an old lover whom my brain embraces until it remembers why the fuck it broke up with them to begin with.

In either case, back to bed. We're low on smokes and my usual sources are tapped. Besides, nightmares take it out of you. They rarely stop me dead in my tracks anymore, not after 33 years of them. But it definitely makes for more broken sleep.

I'm grateful for the last few months where I had no nightmares at all. Perhaps it won't be as bad this time around.

A girl can dream.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
My therapist suggested I rewrite my nightmares. Not to just rewrite them into narrative form (I often do that anyways), but to rewrite the ending into something happy.

That's creatively difficult. I don't do "happy" stories. I don't even LIKE happy stories (unless it involves puppies or kitties that can talk.) So we'll work towards "happy" and just see if I can do "funny and/or bittersweet". I'm actually excited about this particular exercise, I just know that I'll have to work against wanting to write the sad stories.

Original dream: I was Lucifer's right hand woman and escorting my sister about. Sister breaks rules, my ass gets dragged kicking and screaming back to Hell. (Durh. Like, inowrite?)

I've been up for almost 24 hours. So here's the dream I had in the two hours worth of sleep I did manage to catch last night, rewritten. First draft, cuz this motherfucker needs some goddamn imagery.


Being Satan's chauffeur is a hellish job. Sure, the cars are nice and come with great flame decals on the hoods, but the AC is always broken. And if there's one place you don't want your AC to go out, it's Hell. Hell and Los Angeles, which is where my charge of the night was to be delivered.

The living don't know a damn thing about where they're headed. Me? I've got direct line to the Afterlife GPS. That's why tonight's run had me pulling through an extra pack of cigarettes in dread. That's one nice thing about Hell, the smokes burn extra long. I was picking up the last of my bloodline, my sister, and taking her to the symphony.

Why she wanted to go to the Symphony that night, I have no idea. Refined is not a word you can use to describe my sister. But when the Big Guy tells you to drive, you drive. So drive I did.

She didn't recognize me. It wouldn't have mattered anyways. It's in the rules to be wearing a different face when dealing with those you love. Makes it trickier, and the reveal that much more delicious to the Dark Lord. He's kind of a bastard like that.

But no matter. Off to the Symphony I had dropped her and off in the valet parking I was waiting. A little tip - if you must park anywhere in LA, go with Satan's Speedy Service. The mileage gets racked up pretty fast, but we get the best parking spots.

Three hours tick by. Then four. I'm impatient. Some of Hell's servants work day jobs. Those of us who don't are bound by policy to return by sunrise. Not that sunrise will kill us (hello, we're already dead) but it does make travel painful. Literally, on the skin, painful. For a place that keeps the heat at 150 degrees, it sure demonizes the sun.

Five hours. It's 4 AM. Where is she? Did something happen to her? I check the GPS. No, she had not yet reached her destination. She was still alive.

5 AM. The moon begins to fade into the first traces of yellow and orange. I'm out of time and out of luck. Damnit, this will be a lot of paperwork when I get back. One last drag on the cigarette and I step to get back in the car.

I don't quite make it into the car before the sound of a trillion screams ripples the air around me. My stomach drops through the floor and everything around me rends itself apart in shrieking cacophony. Then, as quickly as it started, it ends. My feet hit solid ground.

I groan. This is where people have the idea of Hell all wrong. Hell is not a particularly chaotic place. It's been corporatized. Outside of a few flashy moves, such as the instant travel, Hell is the longest and most boring construction of cubicle offices you'll ever see. And I was in such an office.

The chair in the room slowly twisted around, a silent but definite invite for me to sit. I gulped. Oh god, I hate pissing off the boss. There was no one physically there, of course, but you don't have to see evil to know it's there. There was also a phone on the desk by the chair. I swallowed and nervously rubbed my neck. Inanimate objects get funny ideas in Hell and being strangled by a phone cord was not on my list of things I wanted to do.

Wait...the phone. Yes! Shaking but determined, I grasp the handle, trying to stay as far back from the cord as I could, I decide to make one phone call. Hell's a bit like jail in that sense. You do get your one phone call. It just can't get you of Hell.

Even LA can't afford bond officers for that.

That isn't the goal, however. I have only person to call at this hour and only one person I need to call. A curio shop down on the West Side. Old and rare antiques. Being as Hell has a great credit rating, I've got access to all the top shelf merchandise. It only takes a moment for the owner to pick up and another moment for me to make the transaction.

The chair spins again, a little more insistently, a little faster. With a click of the phone and a grin that stretches ear to ear, I look around the office and say -

"So, have any need for a gold fiddle?"
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There was a dream.

I was in a world - a world somewhere far away. Opulent, rich, flowing robes and massive technology - but still somehow human.

A city. They divided it by walls, concentric, outer expanding rings of walls. The fourth wall - the furthest were where the wealthy, the powerful lived. The magic was strongest there, the old priests, the politicians that schemed with them. They were old, the power was corrupt, and the inner walls lived never knowing this - so completely divided and outside of communication were the inner walls.

They were stealing memories. The collective memories of those who lived in the inner walls gave the thieves power, life, some kind of magical immortality. And so they sucked the memories of those living underneath them, leaving cold husks of people, doomed to wander about in their own walls, never knowing they were once full people with lives.

They had begun to take the memories of those who lived in the third wall. The wealthiest before themselves.

I was in the fourth wall, though not by design. I worked for someone there - a surprisingly kind clothes tailor. He worked for the highest ups. I would watch them cackle amongst themselves, pleased with their vile underhanded takings. I could do nothing about it. I couldn't even tell my tailor that I knew.

I begun corresponding with a woman in the third wall. Somehow, she knew what was going on.

She would send me letters. Packages with the things she loved, that had memories attached to them. Paintings her children had given her, pieces of her wedding set, all with beautiful flowing tellings with them.

She said she knew eventually she'd forget them and that she didn't want to.

And then, the last last letter before I woke up, was her telling me that she didn't know who I was and to please stop writing her.

I set the letter down and stared into the sunset, listened to the television drone on with the voices of those who had set up to steal these good people's hearts. I woke up sad and angry and desperately wishing to right this.

Holding the pieces of a woman who didn't even know she existed.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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