Dreamsequence 31.10.009

The room was dimly-lit. There were groups of people buzzing; floating amidst them was you.

I sat, at the bar covered in leather, and scribbled onto paper—in my own circle of brighter, clearer light. Feigning indifference, brushing away the attraction, tagging your mobile form in my periphery. Hearing every word, but letting none of the words' meanings register on my down-turned face.

I remained invisible in my ring of light—though I kept mentally flexing, pushing my circle outwards, testing my boundaries.

My pulsation must have caught your eye. The others continued their syncopated movements and took no notice, but you strode fluidly across the dimly-lit room. My circle of light shrank at your approach.

You sat down across from me—

(The others were still dancing, but were stuck—their moves seemed inhibited, somehow. Upon closer inspection, I realized that their movements were looped—like the sounds of a broken record: skipping, jerking, scratching.)

—You sat down, and I lifted my head. I stared straight into your eyes.

I showed no fear.

The sternness in my expression turned your eyes bright, and you smiled, baring your inhumanly-sized teeth at me.

You had perfect gums;

I was afraid.

You gazed up at me from underneath your eyebrows, and reached inside my circle of light—and it was extinguished. The din of the surrounding orange-lit room washed over me—the others were again moving freely, albeit awkwardly; you had a secret, and they knew it; they were chanting something I could not understand—but I shut my ears to it, focusing my being on you.

I kept my eyes trained on your face, as the smile there faded to complacency. I watched the rest of you in my vision's periphery. With your left hand and outstretched pointer finger, you drew—in blue blood—two parallel vertical lines, and an upswinging arc underneath. A smiley face.

But I was watching your lips, not your hand, as you bled your mark as close as inhumanly possible to the edge of my paper and its scrawlings.

"You know, God wants you to be happy—" your meaning implicit in every last syllable.

I could not move, but I spoke instead—

"You think I'm not happy?"—and laughed.

Doubt settled briefly in the furrows between your eyebrows, but took flight again as the muscles smoothed over.

(They knew you had a secret.)

You touched my hand, and an orange fit went through me. My skin buzzed, and my vocal chords were blistering, burning—paralyzed by the assault of electricity. Yet I felt no pain. All that registered in my brain was a sharp intake of air, bitter epinephrine flooding my system, coolness against my face.

Your face wavered before me, like a still pond disturbed by the plunk of a stone. Though your touch and your blue gaze remained, the room dissolved—and everything went black; I felt myself rising; I fell deeply into sleep—and from sleep, into wakefulness.

* * *

Green light now fills my vision.

The clock reads 4:47 a.m.