Just a dream
Why do I have to be the one with sickeningly graphic dreams? A man was hit by a car. I almost drove by, but then stopped. Threw off my jacket and got on the ground to hold his hand.
Everything in his midsection had been torn away. I could see his spine. He coughed - fountains of blood, buckets of blood. There aren't enough words in the English language to convey how much blood there was. Intestines and pieces of organs were chopped by the roadside. I tried talking to him, telling him help was on the way. That I was there with him. That he'd be okay.
He died. The paramedics came and stood in the blood. Their shoes were stained. I held my jacket, not caring that it would stain, too.
David says I ought not to write the dreams down. But they make me feel like throwing up even worse if I keep them inside. It's always graphic, it's always 3D. I can still smell the blood. I can still feel the grit of the asphalt on my palms. The only thing I can come up with is that I read about such an accident recently. I can't place it, though.
Maybe it was symbolic. The whole telling him he'd be okay and him dying anyways. Either way, it's nauseating.
It does cut my usual hours-long nap significantly down. Not a positive, but a side effect I can at least note. I go out for a cigarette - it is warmer than it should be. I break my two month celibacy of soda for a ginger ale. The sweetness helps me return to the land of the living. I put on some dubstep music, something heavy that sounds like a heartbeat.
It was just a dream. I have to tell that to myself so often.
It was just a dream.
This entry was originally posted at https://quirkytizzy.dreamwidth.org/501823.html
Everything in his midsection had been torn away. I could see his spine. He coughed - fountains of blood, buckets of blood. There aren't enough words in the English language to convey how much blood there was. Intestines and pieces of organs were chopped by the roadside. I tried talking to him, telling him help was on the way. That I was there with him. That he'd be okay.
He died. The paramedics came and stood in the blood. Their shoes were stained. I held my jacket, not caring that it would stain, too.
David says I ought not to write the dreams down. But they make me feel like throwing up even worse if I keep them inside. It's always graphic, it's always 3D. I can still smell the blood. I can still feel the grit of the asphalt on my palms. The only thing I can come up with is that I read about such an accident recently. I can't place it, though.
Maybe it was symbolic. The whole telling him he'd be okay and him dying anyways. Either way, it's nauseating.
It does cut my usual hours-long nap significantly down. Not a positive, but a side effect I can at least note. I go out for a cigarette - it is warmer than it should be. I break my two month celibacy of soda for a ginger ale. The sweetness helps me return to the land of the living. I put on some dubstep music, something heavy that sounds like a heartbeat.
It was just a dream. I have to tell that to myself so often.
It was just a dream.
This entry was originally posted at https://quirkytizzy.dreamwidth.org/501823.html