The Terrifying Depths of My Subconcious
It is not totally unknown to my family and friends that I often have pretty epic nightmares. Not "ahh i'm nekkid in class" or "oh no! bad thing chasing me and my legs have turned into breakfast sausages!" nightmares. Sometimes I think that my subconcious is trying to fight me in my sleep. If I could manifest my subconcious mind into a person, I would definitely punch it in the face.
Last night, my dream was about a woman. She lived in Ireland. She had a husband, and two sons. They were not especially nice or caring men. Then she had a miscarriage, and the grief of it drove her a little bit....oh, what's the word....bat shit crazy. It was a messy miscarriage--a lot of blood--that occurred late in the pregnancy, and while her husband and sons didn't seem particularly disappointed, the woman was horrified (and so was I). She couldn't line in the home that her baby died in, so outside of her house, she built an elaborate home out of sticks and leaves. There she lived. Her husband found this to be mostly amusing.
But, the husband got bored with his wife's craziness. He took their money, hopped a plane for the states, and left. Distraught, the woman sent her two sons to America to find her husband. However, they decided they liked it better in the good ole USA, so they left their mother alone in Ireland in her solitary hand-made house.
After some time, the wayward husband returned home, much to the woman's surprise and delight. They shared a few happy days together, and the woman confessed to her husband that while he was gone, she got lonely. She showed him a cardboard box containing 20 children of various ages. They were all going to be a big, happy family that occupied spaces not relational to their physical size. It would be nonsensical, but happy.
Except that while the husband was out one day, the family received visitors. They were mobsters that the husband had fallen in with in America, who had come to collect on the husband's debt--aha, the true reason he came home! Finding the woman and her many adopted children unhelpful, the mobsters set her, and her adopted children, and her tree-house, on fire.
The husband returned home to find his wife screaming and beating at the flame, half of her face a mess of gnarled, burning flesh. Many of the children lay dead, the remaining crying and rolling and running. The husband took the living remnants inside the real house--the first time the woman had entered the building in years. Once inside, he tied the last of the children to their bed, and tied down the woman in a similar fashion. He then went from room to room, from bed to bed, from child to child, slitting their throats. He came at last to the hysterical, disfigured and now supremely alone woman, who had listened to each of the children die. He sat next to her on the bed, with his blood-soaked knife. He wanted to be sure that the mobsters never found him--killing everyone was the best way to do that. The woman cried and cried.
I woke up before he killed his wife, and even though it's not real, I hope he did kill her, to put the poor lady out of her horrific misery.
I dare a dream team of Arthur, Eames, Dom, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and J.Lo's character in the Cell to come wrassle with my head. One shouldn't go into my dreams alone.
Last night, my dream was about a woman. She lived in Ireland. She had a husband, and two sons. They were not especially nice or caring men. Then she had a miscarriage, and the grief of it drove her a little bit....oh, what's the word....bat shit crazy. It was a messy miscarriage--a lot of blood--that occurred late in the pregnancy, and while her husband and sons didn't seem particularly disappointed, the woman was horrified (and so was I). She couldn't line in the home that her baby died in, so outside of her house, she built an elaborate home out of sticks and leaves. There she lived. Her husband found this to be mostly amusing.
But, the husband got bored with his wife's craziness. He took their money, hopped a plane for the states, and left. Distraught, the woman sent her two sons to America to find her husband. However, they decided they liked it better in the good ole USA, so they left their mother alone in Ireland in her solitary hand-made house.
After some time, the wayward husband returned home, much to the woman's surprise and delight. They shared a few happy days together, and the woman confessed to her husband that while he was gone, she got lonely. She showed him a cardboard box containing 20 children of various ages. They were all going to be a big, happy family that occupied spaces not relational to their physical size. It would be nonsensical, but happy.
Except that while the husband was out one day, the family received visitors. They were mobsters that the husband had fallen in with in America, who had come to collect on the husband's debt--aha, the true reason he came home! Finding the woman and her many adopted children unhelpful, the mobsters set her, and her adopted children, and her tree-house, on fire.
The husband returned home to find his wife screaming and beating at the flame, half of her face a mess of gnarled, burning flesh. Many of the children lay dead, the remaining crying and rolling and running. The husband took the living remnants inside the real house--the first time the woman had entered the building in years. Once inside, he tied the last of the children to their bed, and tied down the woman in a similar fashion. He then went from room to room, from bed to bed, from child to child, slitting their throats. He came at last to the hysterical, disfigured and now supremely alone woman, who had listened to each of the children die. He sat next to her on the bed, with his blood-soaked knife. He wanted to be sure that the mobsters never found him--killing everyone was the best way to do that. The woman cried and cried.
I woke up before he killed his wife, and even though it's not real, I hope he did kill her, to put the poor lady out of her horrific misery.
I dare a dream team of Arthur, Eames, Dom, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and J.Lo's character in the Cell to come wrassle with my head. One shouldn't go into my dreams alone.