Entry Ten
Beyond Dreaming: Memories
Blue Book,
After yesterday's episode, the main staff
told Wendel never to let me back into the terminally ill ward again. I think he
got reprimanded for it and I feel kind of bad. Marcus told him that I could
get some sort of disease or something there if I'm not wearing the right
clothing and don't take the proper procedures. Oddly, I think part of me
couldn't care less.
I'm writing this from my bedroom right
now because Maxwell is sleeping and he snores pretty damn loud--don't tell him
I said that, though.
The nightmares are never-ending, and the
scariest part about it is that I don't know if they're nightmares, or if they
are things that happened and I don't remember. It's kinda like floating around
your external vessel, watching yourself from close proximity, screaming and
raging and pounding on your cylinder prison telling you to go another way, take
another path, but you never do. You never change what's been done. There's no
script to these dreams, no control, no second chance.
Sometimes, my dreams tend to rewind
themselves, so I have to watch the terrible things I'm doing again and again
and again until I scream to wake up.
I wake up screaming.
Maxwell gives me a peeved glare, hits my
arm, and goes back to bed.
I decided to keep a flashlight next to my
nightstand so it doesn't bother him so much anymore. The doc doesn't want me to
get into any fights anytime soon, which I haven't. I'm fine. He's fine. We're
all fine. That's what matters, right?
I never thought of it this way before,
but I think the doc is actually trying to help. It's about damned time.
Last time he asked me about the
nightmares. They're nothing important, I tell him, but he continues to give me
a skeptical look that I know means he doesn't believe me. I try to look away;
try not to meet him in the eye as I explain the women in my dreams. I double
check, telling him for certain that it's all completely non-sexual, that the
women aren't trying to do anything to me. As a matter of fact, they keep their
distance throughout the entire time. The one I see most is angry with me. She
is Wrath with a Vengeance. The other one is Apathetic. She is silent and
surveys from afar. It takes me a while to realize that I believe--mind, I believe--this
is a piece of memory of mine that I can't seem to recall for the life of me.
It's all too strange.
It's a scene I remember where I'm holding
a knife in my hands. The blade split in two is tainted with a mixture of
splattered blood and gushed brains. On the other end of the blade is a person's
head; the cutting edge penetrated directly into the man's eye.
Who is it? I keep asking myself. Is it
me? No, it's not: I'm the one holding the knife. It's someone else. O god have
I killed a man? A man who I hate with every fiber of my being, yet at the same
time I don't hate. I feel a mixture of emotions in this dream. I feel
angry, distressed, saddened, and yet...vindicated.
The odd part about this session with the
doc was that...he didn't try to analyze my dreams in that pseudo-intellectual,
psychiatric bullshit that I was expecting. He didn't even bother writing down
analogies and possible signs that "yes, this is a very disturbed man who
is in definite need of medical treatment. Seek therapy and more medication
immediately." Nothing like that. He sat there, listening to me, saying
nothing, doing nothing.
Then I heard the doc snoring.