(no subject)
Violent fighting dream last week.
Dream contents:
I was travelling somewhere with Fabs. I think earlier in the dream we were driving, but at some point we set out on foot.
We were walking at night through a residential area. The area started getting pretty ghetto and dangerous looking, so we were walking down the middle of the street to avoid getting too close to the dark houses and alleyways.
Then we reached a section where there weren't any streetlights, so the road was completely dark, except for the faint ambient light from the surrounding neighborhoods. Fab and I were pretty nervous and on edge.
A figure suddenly moved from the darkness on the left and stood menacingly in the middle of the street, blocking our path. It was too dark to make out any details, just a black silhouette.
I'm not sure how I knew they were hostile. Perhaps it was their body language, or their breathing. I stepped in front of Fab, and reached into my pockets and pulled out 2 knives. The first was a double-action, out-the-front switchblade with a short but broad blade. I don't actually own such a thing. This one I pressed into Fab's hands, and told her to run back the way we came. She quickly complied. The second was my Vaquero Grande, given to me as a birthday present from my friend Ben. It's over 10 years old, so the heavy blade can be unfolded with just a flick of the wrist. I snapped it open and assumed a right-lead stance, hoping the authoritive sound would discourage the dark figure from attacking. No such luck.
The figure moved and swung toward me. Though there wasn't enough light to see a weapon in their hand, by the way they thrust their right arm toward me I could tell they had a knife, as well.
oh shit they've got a knife! they're trying to stab me! do they have any formal training? do they have knife-fighting experience? will my training be enough to protect me? will I be able to protect Fab? am I going to get cut? am I going to get killed? do they have any buddies? fight! fight! went my brain in that rapid concept-speak that brains do.
I leaned back to avoid the thrust, pulling my hands back close to my chest, mindful to keep my knife edge and point away from myself. As the figure extended to the end of their reach, I leaned right off the "center line" and lunged forward with a backhand slash. My serrated blade cut deeply into their deltoid muscle, spilling bright red blood. (not sure why their blood was highly visible, when everything else was dark) I maintained the cut, dragging the blade across their shoulder, down their chest and ribs, then across their stomach.
While my right hand was carving a bloody 2 across their body, my left hand hooked their extended right arm, pushing the knife away. I maintained contact with the arm, turning my palm out and grabbing just below their elbow, pushing their arm down as my right hand finished its cut. I momentarily turned my knife-hand palm-up, edge-left to attempt a cut on their right arm as I pushed it downward, but couldn't bring the edge to bear in time.
I shifted into a left-lead stance, shifting my weight forward and using my left hand to push their right arm down against their body and keep it pinned there. I drew back my right hand and delivered a series of quick palm-down stabs in a line up their body, what my old instructor called "filling the bucket with holes". Into the stomach, out, into the chest, out, then into the neck, but ripping the knife to the side instead of pulling straight out on the last stab.
I was pretty sure that finished them, but I wasn't about to hang out and make sure they were properly dead- more might come at any second. I gave my knife and hand a quick wipe on their pant leg, to clean off most of the blood. Their knife was still in their hand, but I gave their blade a wipe too, in case I had touched it during the enchange. I didn't take their knife, reasoning that if their body was found unarmed, they would be considered an innocent victim.
Then I ran back the way we had come, toward the streetlamps, cautiously calling out to Fab. After a couple blocks she emerged from behind a generator housing or a gas tank or something, and I can't remember anything after that.
***************
At least I can fight at full-speed in my dreams now. When I was younger, whenever I'd try to fight in my dreams it was as if I were stuck in thick molasses, unable to strike hard enough to injure, and barely able to move quick enough to defend myself.
Dream contents:
I was travelling somewhere with Fabs. I think earlier in the dream we were driving, but at some point we set out on foot.
We were walking at night through a residential area. The area started getting pretty ghetto and dangerous looking, so we were walking down the middle of the street to avoid getting too close to the dark houses and alleyways.
Then we reached a section where there weren't any streetlights, so the road was completely dark, except for the faint ambient light from the surrounding neighborhoods. Fab and I were pretty nervous and on edge.
A figure suddenly moved from the darkness on the left and stood menacingly in the middle of the street, blocking our path. It was too dark to make out any details, just a black silhouette.
I'm not sure how I knew they were hostile. Perhaps it was their body language, or their breathing. I stepped in front of Fab, and reached into my pockets and pulled out 2 knives. The first was a double-action, out-the-front switchblade with a short but broad blade. I don't actually own such a thing. This one I pressed into Fab's hands, and told her to run back the way we came. She quickly complied. The second was my Vaquero Grande, given to me as a birthday present from my friend Ben. It's over 10 years old, so the heavy blade can be unfolded with just a flick of the wrist. I snapped it open and assumed a right-lead stance, hoping the authoritive sound would discourage the dark figure from attacking. No such luck.
The figure moved and swung toward me. Though there wasn't enough light to see a weapon in their hand, by the way they thrust their right arm toward me I could tell they had a knife, as well.
oh shit they've got a knife! they're trying to stab me! do they have any formal training? do they have knife-fighting experience? will my training be enough to protect me? will I be able to protect Fab? am I going to get cut? am I going to get killed? do they have any buddies? fight! fight! went my brain in that rapid concept-speak that brains do.
I leaned back to avoid the thrust, pulling my hands back close to my chest, mindful to keep my knife edge and point away from myself. As the figure extended to the end of their reach, I leaned right off the "center line" and lunged forward with a backhand slash. My serrated blade cut deeply into their deltoid muscle, spilling bright red blood. (not sure why their blood was highly visible, when everything else was dark) I maintained the cut, dragging the blade across their shoulder, down their chest and ribs, then across their stomach.
While my right hand was carving a bloody 2 across their body, my left hand hooked their extended right arm, pushing the knife away. I maintained contact with the arm, turning my palm out and grabbing just below their elbow, pushing their arm down as my right hand finished its cut. I momentarily turned my knife-hand palm-up, edge-left to attempt a cut on their right arm as I pushed it downward, but couldn't bring the edge to bear in time.
I shifted into a left-lead stance, shifting my weight forward and using my left hand to push their right arm down against their body and keep it pinned there. I drew back my right hand and delivered a series of quick palm-down stabs in a line up their body, what my old instructor called "filling the bucket with holes". Into the stomach, out, into the chest, out, then into the neck, but ripping the knife to the side instead of pulling straight out on the last stab.
I was pretty sure that finished them, but I wasn't about to hang out and make sure they were properly dead- more might come at any second. I gave my knife and hand a quick wipe on their pant leg, to clean off most of the blood. Their knife was still in their hand, but I gave their blade a wipe too, in case I had touched it during the enchange. I didn't take their knife, reasoning that if their body was found unarmed, they would be considered an innocent victim.
Then I ran back the way we had come, toward the streetlamps, cautiously calling out to Fab. After a couple blocks she emerged from behind a generator housing or a gas tank or something, and I can't remember anything after that.
***************
At least I can fight at full-speed in my dreams now. When I was younger, whenever I'd try to fight in my dreams it was as if I were stuck in thick molasses, unable to strike hard enough to injure, and barely able to move quick enough to defend myself.