So I have issues with nightmares. But recently I have had no dreams at all. Which is weird, kind of nice, but a bit weird. But last night, it was like a competition to give me the worst nightmare for a long time. At least trying to compete with the cartoon zombies. (For explanation, see Nightmare of life!)
I think it almost won. But I don’t want it to know, in case it tries to out-do itself tonight.
My new house, which I’ve finally moved into, is finally almost finished, I have shelves, how exciting. Yes, this is the stage my life has reached. I’ve become so prematurely middle-aged that I’m excited about shelves and storage. This wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t that I wanted shelves so bad for my collection of figurines and clocks, DVD’s, CD’s, games consoles and books about bollocks.
Not literal Bollocks, although now I want to own a book that is purely about bollocks. Why has no-one written this?
Anyway, I crawled into my bed, which dominates the whole damn room, being big and soft just to spite me. Warm and cosy just to piss me off when I have to get up for work, but being all hard and cold when I can finally sleep in. Normally about 7am, a good hour before I have to wake up on a work day. If anyone can ever explain this to me scientifically, please do.
I finally fell asleep after spending a good couple hours wondering a million little things. Would I ever become a successful writer? Is it possible to learn pole dancing, pint pulling, tattoo theory and home care all while trying to do the day to day normal stuff? Would I ever actually trust anyone enough to let them near me ever again? Would I ever have sex again? Or would I never trust anyone enough again? Is Boo ok? Will I ever win the lottery? How many things would I do? If I pay my sisters mortgage and my parents would I have enough to buy a shit-load of equipment for Great Ormond Street Hospital? Why do I have such shit internet when I was promised better than 0.4MBps? Is that bruise getting bigger? Why do the hospital want me to call them?
All the usual shit I imagine, or at least, I hope, everyone else has to think about every night. I finally fell asleep, and drifted out to the sandman’s realm, and that’s when the ‘fun’ started.
I awoke in my dream to shouting.
I went to downstairs to find the source of shouting and realised my house had changed. Well, only my living room, but to such an extent that it might as well have the whole house.
My house is in a circular terrace. Basically, imagine someone built a bigger than average house, then cut it into four like a really hard, really tasteless cake. That’s my house, and my three neighbours. But instead of my too-small-for-two, but perfect-for-one-and-her-cat-because-she-is-a-crazy-cat-lady-let’s-face-it living room. I had a panoramic window, about 10 times the size of my normal living room, like the inside of Iron Man’s house, or for those more Blue Peter based, it was like the headquarters of the Thunderbirds.
They say the most terrifying thing to see is the normal made wrong. Like the herald of the Dibbuck, a Jewish demon, is a dog with an upside down head. Not the scary, right? All those lips and ears hanging upside down? Yeah, real scary, not!
Until you remember that this dog is growling anyway, so suddenly you can see so many more teeth, and with it’s head on upside down, you can’t gouge out its eyes when it’s ripping your face apart. And to top it off, it should be dead, and it’s not, it’s growling and snarling and chasing you down. At that point you realise you have as much chance as Clifford the big red dog against the Covonia bull.
It’s not going to end well.
As I looked out my huge window, at a garden that wasn’t mine, over a place that doesn’t exist. And see a woman with a pram who can’t be there, walking through a place that can’t be real. And I swear it was Heather from Eastenders. Terrifying.
She opened my neighbours gate, walked through both gardens and then through my gate, out into the street, leaving the gates open. All the while, her head scarf was dropping further behind her ears, her child falling out of it’s pram. She was shouting nonsense, then saw me, and starting shouting louder “I need wheat for the motherland, observe the motherland, she is lost.” The child then fell out of the pram, head-first, but rather than help, she picked the kid up by it’s foot, dragging it through the mud and stones. Its head getting flatter and flatter, its eyes getting more bugged out. He started screaming “The fatherland falls, the fatherland wins at deadly cost”. I mean, really, what the actual fuck? I didn’t even eat any cheese before bed. And I don’t even have a garden. He carried on screaming about pain and loss, the loss of his wheat. In fairness, I’m not surprised he was in pain, his head was flat. His eyes, torn by their travels through the gardens, torn open, hanging from their sockets, somehow still staring at me, accusing. His leg just attached to his body, the womans grip got tighter on his ankle, I had to follow as they walked round my impossible window.
I had to see. And I saw. As I chased them along the windows, watching their movements, the boys ankle snapped, the bones slicing into his mothers hand. Neither noticed. The shards of bone slashed her hand, her blood mingling with his, the drops landing on the pavement. Every drop gave birth to an enormous flower, each bigger than the last; huge, wrong, brightly coloured flowers, so inviting and terrifying. She looked at me again, and spat, her spittle, like thick blood streaked cream glistened as it hit the glass. I was terrified it would somehow burn through, like acid. Instead it hung there, innocuous in it’s innocence, perfectly normal phlegm hanging onto my perfectly wrong window. I flinched away as they vanished into this forest of blood flowers, slowly disappearing from view, silent and pale in the midst of all the unnatural colour around them.
Then, a bug. A big yellow bug, crawling all over my books in the kitchen, I realised it was a crab spider, but huge. I got some tissue to squash it, but it had grown. About the size of a large cockroach, it waggled it longer front legs at me, as I crushed it screamed, waving and growing. It fell off the books to the floor, all the bits wriggling, like a scene deleted from The Thing as it was too scary for cinema. It’s legs wriggled away from it’s smashed body, the cracked shell spreading and growing as I watched, Boo sat on a shelf, growling, “harm, harm”. She seemed to occupy the same space as the books on the shelf, but a different time.
I crushed the bug again, stamping in it, again and again, each time I stamped on it, it grew again, screaming. It’s screaming reached a pitch so high it hurt. Burning in my ears, making even my eyes hurt. Boo screaming, over and over “harm, harm, gone, harm. Wake, harm, wake, no harm.” Each time I smashed this bug, it had to kick it, it was huge, still spider-like, this Labrador sized arachnid, it’s front legs, like arms, waving and grabbing.
The blood flowing from every cut and crack in this hideous cthulhu-like creation, not a creature, nature couldn’t, wouldn’t, create something so awful, was thick and blue. Electric blue, almost exciting, but too horrifying to be so. It flowed over it’s carapace, pooling on the floor, spreading to my feet, it’s speed almost malicious.
Suddenly, even my boots, with their metal plates and thick leather didn’t feel like enough protection. The blue blood ran over the floor, but now somehow down the walls as well. I could hear it running down the stairs, as if I had left the blue bug blood tap running. I grabbed Boo, she nestled happily in my shoulders, backed away from the kitchen, and felt something in my mouth. Sharp and coppery, stinging and sweet. I moved it around my mouth with my tongue, and spat it into my hand.
And discovered a tooth.
A shard of tooth the length of my finger, covered in blood and rot. I turned over and a thin, diseased looking worm crawled out, falling to the floor, to be eaten by the bug. I spat out teeth, a dozen teeth, the tears falling down my face, the horror threatening to snap my mind there and then. I felt the gaps, felt the open, bleeding gums.
And felt new teeth. New, sharp canines growing in every place. Sharp, tiny teeth, like puppy teeth, growing from my gums, spearing through the flesh. Hundreds of teeth, all falling out and being replaced, again and again.
I spat out more shards, hundreds of sharp pieces of tooth. Long, short, all sharp. All being replaced moments after falling from my mouth.
I ran, taking Boo with me, we fled, I saw the bug everywhere, the flowers surrounding the house, waving their rage at our escape.
I woke, covered in sweat, shaking and scared. Checking all of my teeth, and covered in bugs. I flailed, crying out, trying to hit the bugs, to brush them off me.
And Boo jumped on my face. I couldn’t decide whether to thank her or not. I still can’t. But I’m so glad I woke when I did. Even if my hand was covered in bite marks.