Gail (gailmarie) wrote,

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Just a dream, just an ordinary dream, as I wake in bed

Goddamn the nightmares.

My mind is a scary place. They always have to do with running from intruders, murderers and people intent on doing harm to those I love.

There is always hiding and frantic calls to 911. There is always misunderstanding, and more often than not, at least one casualty.

And by "casualty", I mean that often time I dream about someone I know lying dead on the pavement or strangled in a corner.

It's fucked up and it always gets me in a high state of caution. I'm on edge, and can't really think of going back to bed, no matter how sick and tired I may be.

This particular dream, the one that has me sitting at a computer at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning, was a little less violent than usual.

I wasn't myself for once. So the characters of the dream were technically not people I knew. But I was a woman, and I had a daughter [a little younger than my niece Zoe's age]. We had been having problems with a stalker lately. It was a man who was intent on harming my daughter.

My memory of the dream starts with me, my daughter and a friend sitting around my house, which is set back from a major two-lane highway. It's not really in the middle of nowhere, but it's in an area that has not been developed yet. The friend leaves out the front door, but I have my back turned and I get a familiar feeling of dread. I turn to the door, but it's too late. It's crack open.

I don't know what has come of my friend, but I turn and run toward to the living room/office. The back wall of the room is a giant bookshelf filled with important, legal looking books, as well as a few shelves dedicated to my daughters children's books as well as some knick knacks here and there. In front of the book case is a very nice, dark mahogany desk with a large, fancy maroon leather chair, the kind with gold divet (those metal dot things) in diagonal lines. It has a high curving back and covered leather arm rests. In the corner is a small deep brown leather loveseat sofa. It is half-hidden by the desk and not a focal point in the room. It's used for reading with my daughter.

The rest of the room contains a front sitting area (chairs, couch, fireplace, all in white leather) to the left, and the right is a doorway to an informal (but nicely furnished) dinning area. The color schemes there are pale wood and white trim. It's a contrast to the darker colors of the office area, and complement to the seating area. The entire house is very woody, the floors especially are hardwood, coated and shined, with rugs.

The intruder has taken my daughter and is holding her down on the couch, trying to rub something in her eye. A disease-type of thing, like pink eye, that can either only be contracted through eyes or spreads more quickly that way. I scream at him to stop while running towards him, and my daughter is wiggling and crying. He has a crazed look on his face, a huge smile, and ratty long hair that falls to his face. [He reminds me a lot of an unshowered and lunatic Jack Black.]

There is a bit of a struggle, and soon he's holding me around the neck, in a choke hold. My daughter is curled on the coach, crying, but is no longer in his possession. I try to communicate with her that she should try to knock something off the shelf above that will hit him in the head and knock him unconscious. I make a reference to "remember what we were doing last week?"

She is able to hit him, but he is only put off for a moment. She runs from the room, and I am given enough time to do the same. I take a path opposite of her, running back out the front door and hoping he will follow me. I am hoping that my daughter remembered what else we had discussed last week and had found a safe place to call 911 from.

The next part is blurry for me. I was driving, but it wasn't away from the house. I was frantically trying to get back, knowing that my daughter was in danger. I'm not sure why I drove away in the first place, nor what I did. All I remember was a hurried drive back. The roads were nearly deserted so I ended up running a couple stop signs and turning recklessly.

I get back to the house, and reach the back door. It has now transformed from the beautiful, rich, expensive house that it was, to my actual back door. I let myself in and realize that there is no way I can sneak in. I have already made too much noise and I don't have time for caution. I quickly slip downstairs and run straight across the basement to my sister Fayanne's room. I keep the light off and close and lock the door behind me. As double protection, I hide myself in the closet. [This happens a lot. In almost all of my nightmares (maybe even all), there is a tactic of hiding in closets, especially ones that are cluttered with junk in which to conceal oneself.] I hear him clomp large shoes down the stairs. I crawl out from the closet in pitch blackness and manage to grab a telephone. I dial 911, but there is a repeated and rapid 'click, click, click' noise, and I know he has disconnected the phones. I curse myself for not having my cell phone.

The dream ends there. I awoke without having reached the police, or resolved the problem. I don't know what has happened to my daughter, though I suspect that she is dead. I never find out why we where targets of this man, though I suspect that we were high profile people.

It makes me think of when celebrities put out restraining orders and people always mock them. "Can't take care of themselves" or "can't deal with the life the chose" sort of thing. We all do it. We decide Oprah is weak because a psycho scales her fence and she flips out. We never take things like that as an actual threat, and usually just shut down to the idea in favor of mocking their inability to deal with problems for themselves.

And yet it's really not a laughing matter. Stalkers are very real and potentially very dangerous. It happens to celebrities as well as common people, just celebrities are joked about because they are in the public eye and them having a little break in by a fan who wanted to steal a piece of So-and-so's underwear, or what have you, makes the news.

I have a feeling my daughter was some sort of child star, and that she was definitely in grave danger. I also felt as though we would be mocked about it later...being taken hostage in our own home, hunted down and killed by a maniac. Something that down the line would be the butt of jokes, like Loraina Bobbitt, when the action itself was very dramatic and threatening at the time.

So yeah. It's now 3:20 and I can't sleep.

Say you would, say you could
Say you'd come and stop the rain
Say you'd try and hold me tight

And you just give me away
Make me high on lullabies
A melody for me to sway
Make me high on lullabies a melody for me to sway
"Sway" - Vanessa Carlton

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