Perpetual Smile

The black night sky presses down on us, erases the trees and other forest foliage that would normally be comforting. We sit around a fire that should light up the clearing but offers no warmth or light tonight. I can barely make out the others’ faces, blurred and featureless. The only one clear to me is the brunette squatting five or so feet from me, but even his face is hard to make out. I just know he has dark hair. I also know that he is my boyfriend.

My hair is blonde, I note, and it’s unsettling that my hair is the only thing that stands out in this strange place. It’s the only thing I can really see. Later it will remind me of The Wizard of Oz — or better yet, Sin City. Maybe Schindler’s List would be a better analogy. My hair is the red raincoat of the movie, but this is no movie. This is something else entirely.

It’s hard to tell exactly what we’re doing here. I know intuitively that I’ve run away from something, and my boyfriend has run with me. I don’t know who the other people are.

The place is filmed over with mud, watery and flecked with heavier bits of sand. It’s like watching a grainy movie filmed in sepia tones, but I’m a part of this. I don’t know who I am besides a blonde with a brunette boyfriend. My hair is so yellow against all of the black. I can’t get over it.

Suddenly the murky world spins slowly, blackens for a moment, and the brunette is talking to me. His lips are moving, and even though I can’t hear what he’s saying I still know what the words mean. In the language of my mind they don’t make sense, but my subconscious understands. I get the feeling that he is angry. He strikes me, and my nose bleeds. The blood is just another shade of brown, and I feel no pain. I am not even surprised. Somewhere, another part of me is screaming that none of this is right, none of this makes sense. Who would hit me? I am falling into the mud again and the screaming voice is gone, gone.

I’m knocked up, I realize. He isn’t happy about that. It’s like it’s my fault. I can’t tell; everything is so damn brown. He’s screaming and yelling and I have no idea what he is saying. It’s just the murk, the mud, the gauzy brown stuck over my eyes. I am deaf and mute, but I cry out anyway when he hits me again. Everything goes completely black, and I think that it is over.

I’m lying on a stainless steel table, and I know that it’s stainless steel without being able to feel it. I know that it is cold and I know that the bright white lights shining down on me are operating room lights. Doctors are leaning over me and in that strange, no-word speech of this world, they tell me I had a miscarriage. The screaming voice from earlier is back, taking over all of my senses. The scream engulfs me and it is agony, as if I’d thrown myself into a tub of boiling water.

The screamer’s pain is red and for a moment the stark white of the operating room is replaced by that red, and then it is gone because the operating room is gone, too. There are bodies everywhere, slouched against the walls of the abandoned house. Their faces are peaceful, as though they are only sleeping. Their mouths are slack and their eyes are closed, but I know they’re dead. I know the house is abandoned and the people are dead because that same intuition from earlier tells me so. I think I can get used to this strange sixth sense.

There is a gun in my hand and I know I need it, just like I know the house is abandoned. Abandoned except for them, and him. He’s going to hurt me, and I need the gun. I start climbing stairs. I walk from room to room, and the murky world is fading. I want to stay in this world and kill him, because it’s all his fault, but I can’t.

The mud swirls away, and the world is a blaze of gold, like my hair.

This is the exact transcript of the nightmare I had a few days ago. I had to describe a vivid nightmare I’ve had for Creative Writing this week. The assignment was to work on physical description, and I think I did pretty well. Please let me know what you think! I really appreciated everyone’s comments on “Eugene Bean Takes the Subway”.

“Carrying Over” is © November 2008 to Elizabeth K. Barone. If you would like to share this story with others, you may do so by linking here. You may not, under any circumstances, copy any of this story for any reason. If you have any questions, you can email me at elizawhat [at] gmail [dot] com.