A bitter wind is
battering me from all sides. This isn’t right. I remember drinking wine with
Sierra in the back yard, laughing into the darkness at her quips. I suppose I
could have fallen asleep on the quilt we had lain out. Sure that I’ve just
fallen asleep outside, I collect myself and look around. I can see nothing but
bare earth and darkness all around me. There are patches of churned up soil and
chunks of dark stone scattered within my view. I quickly stand up and brush
away the bits of dirt clinging to my clothing. My chest tightens and I become
lightheaded when I realize I have no idea where I am. My eyes glide over the
horizon as I rotate in a circle. I need to find something, anything, to focus
my attention on rather than this bare landscape. There aren’t even any stars in
the sky. Just a veil of darkness so thick and murky it almost seems solid, a
tangible force pushing in from all around making me claustrophobic. I pick a
direction at random and begin wandering.
I keep travelling on,
but the surroundings never change. It’s as if I’m walking on a treadmill
comprised of earth and stone. My steps grow more lethargic as my energy wanes.
The soles of my feet burn; I’m sure they have been cut up and mutilated by hard
chunks of dirt and sharp little rocks. The air has been churning about me so
fiercely that my eyes are continuously watering. I feel as if I’m trapped inside a whirling
snow globe with icicle currents. I want to find shelter from the biting cold,
but my hopes are dwindling. Bewilderment suddenly overwhelms me and I come to a
halt. I no longer know what to do. Mindless walking has gained me nothing but injured
feet. I am ready to sit down and wait for something to happen. It may not
produce any results, but it is easier than going any further. I notice a rock
large enough to perch on about twelve paces away.
I try to take a step
toward the rock, but my legs won’t move. Something is tangled around them. I
kick my feet but my restraints only tighten. I bend to tear at whatever is
wrapped around my legs, but I lose my balance and fall. From the ground, my
eyes focus on my legs. My lungs instantly feel as if they are filled with
cement. Wrapped around my ankles and calves are a dozen hands. Not just hands.
Hands covered in grime and crusty wounds. Hands with chunks of disintegrating flesh
clinging to bony fingers by shreds of tissue. I strain to kick my legs, but the
hands are gripping me too tightly. I grab a set of cold fingers and try to pry
them from my calf. Pale fingers dig in, the fingernails gouging into my flesh.
I gasp at the pain and shudder as crescents of my blood pools beneath
dirt-encrusted fingernails.
“Let
me go!” I scream, pounding my fists on the hands enveloping my calves. I
realize the hands are no longer merely restraining me when I feel clumps of
frozen dirt scrape my ankles. I dig my palms into the dirt to keep from being
pulled down. My shoulders burn with the futile effort and small rocks scrape
along my palms as my legs slowly disappear beneath the earth. My throat is on
fire from my relentless screaming by the time the dirt reaches my waist. The
cold weight of earth presses in around my lower half, dirt shimmying along my
thighs. My mind is fuzzy and I no longer know how to react to the situation. I
cannot move my lower body at all and my arms have been reduced to useless
noodles from pushing down on the earth. The only discernable thought in my head
is that I’m going to die. I do not want to die, but I am going to be pulled
beneath the earth to my death.
I
allow my body to go limp. I no longer have the strength to struggle. More hands
emerge from the black earth. Chilly fingers wrap around my arms with bruising
pressure. I feel fingers inching up my torso to my shoulders. The smell of
rotting flesh pervades my nose. It is so strong that my mouth fills with the
taste of spoiled meat. As I am pulled down, the earth meeting my chest, I can also
smell the soil. It does not smell natural. The earth here is filled with decay
and sickness. I feel tears streaming down my face when my chin meets dirt. Sobs
escape my throat and I gasp for air. One last scream bursts from my lungs as
hands grip my skull and dirt crumbles around my face. My eyes squeeze shut
against the invasive soil. The scent and flavor of decay overwhelms my senses
when shifting earth disrupts my scream. There is no more air. I cannot breathe.
I
open my eyes and try one last time to pull substance into my burning lungs. I
cannot see anything, but there is air. I turn my head erratically from side to
side. Soft fabric brushes across my face and I quickly claw it back. A ceiling
glares white in silver moonlight. I force myself to slow my breathing as my
eyes wander around the room. I’m in Sierra’s bedroom. The sheets are wrapped
around my legs so I struggle to kick them off. My heart is still pounding even
though I’ve realized the dead hands were only a nightmare. The dream clings to
me like a starving parasite. Dread and horror broil angrily around my stomach.
When the edges of my vision go black and my face flushes, I realize that I’m
going to vomit. I leap out of bed as quickly as my trembling limbs will allow
and scamper towards the trashcan that is cozied up next to the dresser.
Even
after my stomach is empty, dry heaves send my abdominal muscles into vicious
cramps. I sit on the floor, trashcan clutched between my legs, waiting for my
stomach to settle back down. When I feel steady enough, I pull myself up using
the dresser for leverage. I weave my way to the bathroom through the dark
hallway. I run my fingertips down the wall to keep myself moving in a straight
line. The light brush of the smooth wall makes my fingertips tingle. The dry,
soft hiss my fingers make against the painted drywall is almost overwhelming in
the overbearingly silent house. Goosebumps erupt on my arms.
“Where
the hell is Sierra?” I whisper aloud. “Sierra?” I call her name once and pause
for a moment before I turn in to the bathroom. My eyes are adjusted to the
darkness of the hallway so I can see clearly in the moonlit bathroom. Though it
could be the light, I find my reflection startlingly pale. With shaking hands,
I turn the spigot and splash cool water on my heated cheeks. Rivulets of sweat
imbued water snake down my face and drip from my chin to join the water
gurgling down the drain. White knuckled, I grip the counter as my head swims.
“It
wasn’t real,” I whisper, meeting my own eyes in the mirror.
Deep
breath. It wasn’t real.
Exhale.
It was an alcohol-induced nightmare, for sure.
“Whitney?”
Startled by Sierra’s sudden presence, I jump.
“Holy
shit, you scared me! Where the hell did you sneak in from?” I query breathlessly
with my hand pressed to my rapidly beating heart.
“I’m
sorry. I was headed back to bed. You look ill. Are you okay?”
With
a sigh I respond, “I’m alright. I just had a really vivid nightmare. Got me a
bit spooked and off-kilter.”
“Are
you okay to go back to bed, sugar? I could make you some tea. Or we could go
out and get some fast food.”
“No,
no… I’m okay. Let’s just go to bed.” I reach for her hand and she weaves her
cool fingers into mine. We pad our way down the hallway with our shoulders
touching. Her presence helps melt some of my lingering anxiety.
In
bed, our limbs intertwine. Soft thighs sandwiched and chests pushing and
pulling against each other with each breath. Sierra nuzzles into my neck and
softly draws her lips under my jawline.
“I’m
sorry you had a bad dream,” she mumbles against my skin. “Maybe I can help you
feel a little better?” She follows this suggestion with a girlish snicker. Her
hand runs along my back, softly tracing undiscernible patterns. Part of me is
filled with erotic heat, excited by her touch and her breath on my neck. The
memory of the scent of decay still lingers in my nostrils, though. My legs
still tingle with phantom cuts and bruises.
“Maybe
in the morning. I just…I can’t right now.” I place my hand on her cheek. “I
wish I could. I’m just still so disoriented. It’s like my brain is still mixing
up real with not real.”
Sierra
lightly pecks my cheek with her soft lips, and then rolls over. I wrap my arms
around her and pull her into me.
“Goodnight
Whitney,” she whispers. “Sweet dreams, love.”
“Goodnight.”
I
feel Sierra’s body grow heavy with sleep. She sort of purrs like an exhausted
kitten when she’s really out. Normally a sweet and lulling sound, it grates
against my jangled nerves. I truly wish to drift into the blackness of
exhausted sleep. My mind keeps whirring, though. My chest still feels tight. I’m
finding it impossibly difficult to relax.
When
the room begins to turn light gray in early morning sunlight, I shift my arm
from under Sierra and slink out of bed. As I tumble down the hallway toward the
kitchen, I hope my entire day won’t be marred by this lingering sense of dread.
I could use some hot coffee and a steamy shower. Maybe some chocolate chip
pancakes would help, too. While measuring coffee into a filter, I try to
compile a list of things to distract my mind from the overwhelmingly terrifying
dream. The list grows as Mister Coffee splutters. I begin to feel hopeful.
Today is just another day. The sunlight will burn away the sticky shadows
lingering in the corners of my vision. Coffee mug in hand, I find myself ready
to meet the day.
