Violence.
"It's delusions," I had finally figured it out. It was the same pattern over and over: a powerful delusion, followed by normalicy, and then something triggers the delusion back and --
"I think I'm someone else, then I'm normal for a while, then I just up and kill someone."
I'm not sure who I was talking to that WASN'T alarmed by the "then I just up and kill someone." But it was more like an intellectual roundtable than any sort of judicial proceeding. My comrades expressed mild, studious interest in my theory.
I would dream - but it was really more than dreaming, it happened while awake as well - that I was somebody being greatly wronged. Somebody completely not me, but it was very complete, like actually being another real person for a few minutes. For example I imagined once that I was a pretty, light-skinned black girl with a permed ponytail and a gold blouse. Somebody had cheated on me. I was murderously angry. I came back to myself.
Later in an elevator somebody said those words, a lady with high cheekbones and long dark brown hair. I had never met her, I didn't know her, and she wasn't talking about me. But she was talking about cheating. The delusion took over, and I stabbed her to death in the elevator, the door hanging open, with what looked like some very serious meat scissors.
The building had looked like a fancy corporate office but it would later claim to be a high school in the location of my current college, as dreams are often \wont to inconsistently do. It also seemed to be the same brunette lady in a white coat that discovered the resultant carnage, but I don't know for sure. She almost looked like a doctor, or perhaps a professor. The cut was like one in a movie, where something has obviously happened in the interval, or between panels. It was not just the one lady that was dead. In an overhead cutaway shot, as if the roof had been lifted off, the live woman opened doors into a succesive catacomb of halls, there were bodies, bodies in every hall, all gratuitously stabbed to death. The camera seemed to pull back to reveal the entire extent of the massacre on that floor, and then, well, there was panic.
The live lady ran into one other live lady having a reasonable panic attack and they bungled into an elevator together, in shock. On the bottom floor, other people were running out the door, but not as many as you would think. Creepily, it seemed to reflect how many people were actually dead. Also, it seemed that no one had actually SEEN it happen. All those people had died shortly after witnessing it. They were people who one by one stumbled on the floor o death, and in shock, they actually just sort of jogged quietly out the door, more powerwalking than running, as if their raw instinct could only barely penetrate their veil of disbeleif.
Then I was fleeing the building too. Either the killer was never me, or I was so crazy, I didn't remember it. In any case, nobody else thought it was me either. My roommate and some friends were outside. My roommate was smiley and clearly no one had really articulated what was in the building yet. Really, nobody knew what had happened.
"Where's the car?" I asked my roommate.
"We walked from Turner," they said, which is a dorm here in Savannah. We did not seem to be in Savannah. If anything it looked like Clover.
"Shit," I said. I think I explained something about dead people. We began to flee on foot.
I was in the woods. Not like the woods woods, but on a country road. Guess it WAS Clover. Nobody was with me anymore. I was holding the scissors. I was thinking of them as a defensive weapon. I don't know if they were the same scissors as before, but I didn't seem to think that.
Running made me very tired. In fact, it was somehow almost impossible. I was already unbearably fatigued. I came up on a house. A woman asked me to come inside and answer a question. Her family was on the patio with her. They were debating how much one should sell a large, ornate wooden door for. I knew I was in a hurry but also I didn't trust anyone and didn't want to look like I was in a hurry. I stopped and went to the patio.
The husband said three hundred dollars. It was large, solid wood, and painted. The woman seemed to think she couldn't sell it for more than $75, and I said that was silly, a chunk of nice wood that large ALONE would be pretty expensive. It was one whole piece. It was very nice, and handpainted. So I agreed with the husband. I thought about asking for some water then didn't. I was very tired. Then, it was somehow neccesary that I take of my shirt. I don't know why. I greeted their teenage son who had just walked up and apologized for having to hold my boobs up. It didn't seem that odd to ANYONE. Since they were painting and making crafts on the porch, when I put my bra back on I realized it had gotten glitter all over it and was somehow hard to get on. That part was very awkward. Then I was covered in glitter.
I got home, and it was my apt here. I still had scissors. I wanted to get up and hide in the bedroom, but when I tried to move I couldn't. I seemed to be on the floor by the couch. I shut my eyes, exerted myself to move, and when i opened them, was still staring at the bulletin board by my roomates door. I started to panic. This went on for several minutes. I couldn't speak and my throat started to feel tight.
Suddenly my head snapped to the right with all the effort I'd been putting into it, like falling backwards when you're pulling a rope someone else suddenly lets go of. I almost hurt myself. I was awake. I had been sleep-paralyzed at the end with my eyes open, on the couch.
"I think I'm someone else, then I'm normal for a while, then I just up and kill someone."
I'm not sure who I was talking to that WASN'T alarmed by the "then I just up and kill someone." But it was more like an intellectual roundtable than any sort of judicial proceeding. My comrades expressed mild, studious interest in my theory.
I would dream - but it was really more than dreaming, it happened while awake as well - that I was somebody being greatly wronged. Somebody completely not me, but it was very complete, like actually being another real person for a few minutes. For example I imagined once that I was a pretty, light-skinned black girl with a permed ponytail and a gold blouse. Somebody had cheated on me. I was murderously angry. I came back to myself.
Later in an elevator somebody said those words, a lady with high cheekbones and long dark brown hair. I had never met her, I didn't know her, and she wasn't talking about me. But she was talking about cheating. The delusion took over, and I stabbed her to death in the elevator, the door hanging open, with what looked like some very serious meat scissors.
The building had looked like a fancy corporate office but it would later claim to be a high school in the location of my current college, as dreams are often \wont to inconsistently do. It also seemed to be the same brunette lady in a white coat that discovered the resultant carnage, but I don't know for sure. She almost looked like a doctor, or perhaps a professor. The cut was like one in a movie, where something has obviously happened in the interval, or between panels. It was not just the one lady that was dead. In an overhead cutaway shot, as if the roof had been lifted off, the live woman opened doors into a succesive catacomb of halls, there were bodies, bodies in every hall, all gratuitously stabbed to death. The camera seemed to pull back to reveal the entire extent of the massacre on that floor, and then, well, there was panic.
The live lady ran into one other live lady having a reasonable panic attack and they bungled into an elevator together, in shock. On the bottom floor, other people were running out the door, but not as many as you would think. Creepily, it seemed to reflect how many people were actually dead. Also, it seemed that no one had actually SEEN it happen. All those people had died shortly after witnessing it. They were people who one by one stumbled on the floor o death, and in shock, they actually just sort of jogged quietly out the door, more powerwalking than running, as if their raw instinct could only barely penetrate their veil of disbeleif.
Then I was fleeing the building too. Either the killer was never me, or I was so crazy, I didn't remember it. In any case, nobody else thought it was me either. My roommate and some friends were outside. My roommate was smiley and clearly no one had really articulated what was in the building yet. Really, nobody knew what had happened.
"Where's the car?" I asked my roommate.
"We walked from Turner," they said, which is a dorm here in Savannah. We did not seem to be in Savannah. If anything it looked like Clover.
"Shit," I said. I think I explained something about dead people. We began to flee on foot.
I was in the woods. Not like the woods woods, but on a country road. Guess it WAS Clover. Nobody was with me anymore. I was holding the scissors. I was thinking of them as a defensive weapon. I don't know if they were the same scissors as before, but I didn't seem to think that.
Running made me very tired. In fact, it was somehow almost impossible. I was already unbearably fatigued. I came up on a house. A woman asked me to come inside and answer a question. Her family was on the patio with her. They were debating how much one should sell a large, ornate wooden door for. I knew I was in a hurry but also I didn't trust anyone and didn't want to look like I was in a hurry. I stopped and went to the patio.
The husband said three hundred dollars. It was large, solid wood, and painted. The woman seemed to think she couldn't sell it for more than $75, and I said that was silly, a chunk of nice wood that large ALONE would be pretty expensive. It was one whole piece. It was very nice, and handpainted. So I agreed with the husband. I thought about asking for some water then didn't. I was very tired. Then, it was somehow neccesary that I take of my shirt. I don't know why. I greeted their teenage son who had just walked up and apologized for having to hold my boobs up. It didn't seem that odd to ANYONE. Since they were painting and making crafts on the porch, when I put my bra back on I realized it had gotten glitter all over it and was somehow hard to get on. That part was very awkward. Then I was covered in glitter.
I got home, and it was my apt here. I still had scissors. I wanted to get up and hide in the bedroom, but when I tried to move I couldn't. I seemed to be on the floor by the couch. I shut my eyes, exerted myself to move, and when i opened them, was still staring at the bulletin board by my roomates door. I started to panic. This went on for several minutes. I couldn't speak and my throat started to feel tight.
Suddenly my head snapped to the right with all the effort I'd been putting into it, like falling backwards when you're pulling a rope someone else suddenly lets go of. I almost hurt myself. I was awake. I had been sleep-paralyzed at the end with my eyes open, on the couch.