Bad Dream 1: Shape-shifting Heads and Couple's Therapy (2018)

THIS DREAM COULD ACTUALLY BE DISTURBING TO SOME, OR MAKE YOU JUDGE ME. EITHER WAY HAVE FUN.

There was a married couple, not quite middle-aged, who no longer connected; they couldn't remember why they came together in the first place. In fact, neither of them seemed very connected with themselves, like there was hardly a personality there. They did what they had to do in life and no more. Who knows where they even found the motivation to seek couple's therapy. But that's what they did. It was no light decision either; they were to spend at least two weeks on a secluded island with the specialist for the program.

    As the boat was arriving at the island that sunny day, they could see the office buildings, skyscrapers, standing out from the overgrown tropical forest. There did not seem nearly enough people for so many large buildings. They settled in with an introductory consultation with the head doctor and would begin sessions the next day.

~

    That first night, while they lay asleep in bed under dim moonlight, a shadow went into the wife. With one sudden move she flipped on her back, eyes racing from side to side, knowing something had come very near. In an instant the pillow was splattered bloody with her whole head. Just as quick her head was whole again. Her and her husband's eyes seized with shock. With what impulse she leaped across the foot of the bed! With what desperation she ran!

        Legs which think that fleeing they flee some way from their own shadow,

        The pitied state of mind which does its alien owner battle.

    A few long strides were all she managed before there was nothing for her but to scream blind, as this thing now transformed the very matter of her head from horror to unnatural horror. Each one delighted it more than the last—impossible, unknown shapes and ridges and complexions formed by unspeakable skill. Not one lasted longer than a breath before her head was shaped into something else. Her husband never made a move, never had a thought of what to do. And she, the helpless sport of the shadow, fainted to the floor face first.

    With a single silver swell of adrenaline, my brother and I cringed backward and I said, "Ohh, that was just a bit over the top for me."

~

    The next day was the couple's first counseling session. They were set in a sunlit prop-bedroom. The pillows, sheets and curtains were also bright, pink and white. The fourth wall was a one-way window from the other side where the doctor watched.

    They were instructed for the exercise to simulate a romantic exchange. The rules were this. The wife could only speak Spanish (which the husband did not know). The husband could not speak verbally at all. They could not touch each other, but would remain on either end of the bed, the wife at the head and the husband at the foot.

    Kneeling in their places, they looked across to each other unsettled, expecting not to know what to do. The counselor turned on gentle new age music with a lead saxophone. They experimented with what they could do and it was terribly awkward, not even for an ironic laugh. After the Spanish proved unhelpful, the man thought of what he could do without speaking. So he went for it. He made kissy faces at her. Then she made kissy faces back. They continued slowly, silently sending big fishy kissy faces, one at a time. Muh. Silently, slowly, they continued, while the saxophone played. Four feet away from each other. Muh. Muh.

    The counselor, watching their faces, noticed their features soften, losing definition as they made their kissy faces. Muh. Muh. They were looking less and less real, like bad computer animations. He was pleased to see some results, but it was unsettling, and he rolled back slowly in his chair. Muh.

~

    All that day they forgot what had happened the last night. But now this next night the shadow went into the husband. Flipped on his back as his wife was last night, she was not there beside him. Where was she? Knowing what was about to happen, he leapt across the foot of the bed with such desperation, he tripped forward, and pop!—splat went his head across the floor. Then all back together, he made it another few steps before being gripped still while it had its fun, shaping his head from this thing to that, same as before. But it came one time to a head which remained a few moments longer, a simple shape, where he could breath a moment and really see his suffering, really take in the horror and be sure to remember it.

        It was a plain face with eyes to see—this only heightened his fear—

        As if it was his native head, inflated to a sphere.

    It was almost like the shape of a pumpkin. There was just one thin, innermost layer of skin covering the muscle underneath, pulsing from the pain of sudden exposure to the air; pale orange even, and nearly smooth, but with ridges and marks of stretching because of the swelling. His eyes were wide open and he screamed once more at the sight of himself. The sound of his scream was terrible; not loud, but the power that did come through conveyed a fear his body was too frail to vent.

    My mother and I cringed backward in our seats, almost looking away, and she said, "Ooh, yikes, that was a little bit extreme."

--

November or December (?) 2018.