Indefinite Length, Part 2
9. Mar. 2018
Fever dreams are part of the healing process. You know this even as you complain aloud in the darkness about having to wipe sweat off your chest, and getting back into bed to lay in a coolish puddle. Elevated body temperature is proof that your cellular soldiers are on patrol. War zone wet sheets and now you're awake, remembering the dream, mind casting about for proof of which parts actually happened.
Metaphorically, of course. You're convinced you learned something.
It always starts at your parents' house, you're always back home, they are working in the garden together and the sun is shining. Maybe the dog is there, maybe another dog you don't recognize. Maybe the backyard is full of relatives. Your bike is in the garage. No one has died, divorced, moved away, except you. Your boss from two jobs ago is in the kitchen, and your ex from three relationships ago is suddenly there and grabs your hand to escape from some nameless threat. (That threat would be your cold virus, but you don't have a cold now, not here.) You run and the house becomes a great wooden sailing ship at sea, you're on the deck, and the wind is steady. Crowds of people mill about dressed like summer tourists and your ex is now from only one relationship ago. You have a sense that something is expected of you, but your only impulse is to keep moving.
Night has fallen and you are walking through a parking lot, in a city you don't recognize. A distant fast food sign shines high above the scene, like a plastic moon, and a group of older kids (some multi-ethnic gang from an 80's dystopian future movie; man, their clothes are crazy) are trying to play basketball across the tops of empty cars. You understand that they would kill you for invading their territory but the buildings around the lot are close and tall and you can't see a way out. You have a children's book with you, and decide to sit and read it, but the pages scribble themselves until everything is a tangle of black and purple lines, red crayon, and typewriter mistakes. The kids have seen you now, and pull knives on you, so you read the book to them.
On the other side of the parking lot, your (dead) father watches, and he is young and un-handicapped. That is when you know you are dreaming. That is when the fever breaks.
|Kim Breeding-Mercer - Indefinite Length, Part 2|
IN WHICH: On the other side of the parking lot, your (dead) father watches, and he is young and un-handicapped.
© KIM BREEDING-MERCER / OgFOMK ArTS -- 2018 All Rights Reserved. - "Indefinite Length, Part 2"
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