Last night while I was sleeping, I was tortured in a dream by two people I know well, who finally banned together because I had shot their child in the back and murdered him. His bloody body lay in the shadows 30 feet ahead of me. There was no place, no setting, no background other than black. There was no furniture, no walls, no past, present – only a few feet of angled light cutting through the nightmare.
I felt myself running away until, I too, was sniped, falling to the ground begging his parents to get it over with and kill me.
But they didn’t kill me. I was face down on the floor, broken legs heavy with pain trying to inch my way to the woman I knew, hoping our eyes would meet and she might recognize my eyes or face and take sympathy. But the man grabbed me, placing my hands on some sort of shelf as I started screaming and slowly, on by one, he sawed off every fingertip until there were no identifying marks left.
…
And then I wandered sandy cliffs overlooking the sea. Thick grass wedged itself among the rocks, birds with awning-expansed wings glided overhead. We placed kite-like patterns over their bodies and once we released them we wondered how we would ever get them back. I was looking for a cliff to place my bed – in soft sand with a sea view. But I found myself on the shore searching for shells with an impatient tide rolling in. Caught in driftwood, discarded oil painting drowned like injured animals. It wasn’t until the water marched all the way in that I found the most amazing shells.
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