By the time I went
to bed last night I was seriously starting to lose whatever good feelings I’d mustered
up since Monday night. Thoughts like I’m
crazy, I make things up, I’d rather be dead than deal with all of this…that
kind of stuff.
The dream I had I
only remember a part of. I was staying
in a house—not permanently, I don’t think.
I don’t know if it was a relative or not. A small group of people lived in the house,
including one woman who, it turns out, was a demented serial killer. I was sleeping on the couch in the living
room but everyone else had a bedroom off of one main hallway—like my house growing up. The people living in the house
called the hallway Death Row because every so often someone would be murdered
during the night, while they slept, in a very gory way, I think with a knife. We all knew it was this one woman—she very proudly
announced it, & seemed to take pleasure in our fear—but for some reason we didn’t seem to think we could stop her.
She enjoyed the fact that we didn’t know what
night she would strike. At one point I looked in on her & saw her lying in
bed with a smile on her face, like she was awake & knew we were scared. She had threatened me, too, so I was
terrified to go to sleep, as was one other woman who lived there (although she
seemed to take it for granted that she just had to deal with this). I was tired but doing all I could to stay
awake. I just wanted to make it through
the night & get out of there, although it wasn’t clear if I could leave in
the morning. I just wanted to go back
home.
I don’t really
remember what happened after that. I
might have made it until morning, however.
The dream wasn’t a
pleasant one, obviously. I feel scared
thinking about it.
