To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Slept enough last night to dream, but wasn't rested when I woke. Sad scary thoughts are passing through my head at night.

I dreamt of climbing mountains with friends. The rocks were steep and the views spectacular, but I was uncomfortable and felt like I was going to fall. Suddenly I looked down into a crevasse and there was a woman there, obviously in distress. She was bleeding. I tried to tell everyone she must have fallen, she was bleeding from internal injuries. I watched the pool of blood grow and we looked down on her and could do nothing, we couldn't reach her. A man came up and told us there was a knife accident, that he had stabbed her in the stomach. We sat at the edge, looking down 100 feet and she lay there and bled and died, and I couldn't do anything.

I dreamt a friend called, a dear friend. He was crying and his voice was all wrong. He said he was glad I was there for the interview, because it was really upsetting him and he'd broken the door and hurt the gerbils. But I wasn't there, and I couldn't help from so far away. I couldn't do anything.

The worst of these nightmares was many years ago. I was held in a concrete basement, eyes propped open, bound to a chair. For hours I was held and forced to watch a film reel of the horrific murder of dozens of people, one after another, and I knew that it was my fault, I had caused it, I had done nothing and they were dead and it was all mine. That was more than 20 years ago and it is still vivid enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I saw a therapist after that one. She excused my poor psyche and told me these dreams were about my sense of responsibility. I don't remember anything else she told me about them. All I know is sometimes I wake up feeling like I have failed someone, that I could have, should have done better. And I carry that feeling with me through my days and nights, even when I don't have those dreams.

Crawlspace

His knees grew damp from the cold dirt under the house, even through the double-thickness of canvas. Good. He must be getting close to the broken line. He'd been crawling around in the near dark for a good half hour, cursing the idiots who'd run a water line through a crawlspace, no matter that it wasn't really a cold climate. Of course the damn thing had broken during a super cold spell. And of course the homeowners were out of town. According to the water company the meter had been spinning like crazy for at least a week. They'd finally gotten hold of the family, and the man had called him from some sunny spot in Florida. Friend of a friend recommendation. Work was slow and he needed the money for the holidays, so he took the job on the promise that they'd pay when they got back in a couple of weeks. He'd leave an invoice in their mailbox when this shit was over. 

The handyman craned his neck the best he could, following the lines and ciphering out hot and cold, electrical and gas. The maze was even more complex than usual. Old construction. His right hand splashed down into a wrist deep channel of icy water that flowed sluggishly over his fingers and the flashlight. Fuck. He yanked up, smacking the back of his head hard against the rough cut joists above and spraying himself with mud as he shook the flashlight to dash off the water. It dimmed, glowed bright, dimmed again, then held steady. Thank god for that at least. He looked down at the water, following the stream with his eyes and straining to see where it had come from. It shouldn't have been flowing. He'd turned the water off at the street at least forty-five minutes ago. Didn't matter. He was getting close. 

He shifted to the left to avoid the water, wiping his muddy hand on his shirt. Moving forward slowly he realized the stretch of dirt before him was a quagmire of mud just this side of frozen. Ugh. That was going to add a big-ass PITA charge to the bill. Not sure how he'd explain it, but there was no way he was going to crawl through four inches of muck for a stranger and not bill extra. Goddamn it. He'd never make it home in time for the game. He reached back with his left hand and dragged his plumbing toolbox forward, hoping the dented metal was sound enough to keep out most of the mud. He'd hate to have to wash all his tools on top of the rest of this shit. Goddamn it.

He looked up again, slowly shining his light along the glinting pipes. At least they were copper. Switching up from galvanized or god-forbid PVC would have been an even bigger nightmare. Finally he saw the break. It was big, at least four inches long. The pipe had bulged and split like lips where the water inside had frozen. Strange that it was so far under the house, where the cold shouldn't be so bad. Didn't matter. It was a pretty simple fix. Maybe he'd get home in time after all. 

The man dragged through the mud on his knees, his boots becoming cumbersome as the ankles filled with slime and the toes grew damp. Fuck a duck. He kept as upright as possible despite the low ceiling, and used his hands only to drag the toolbox and hold the flashlight. Below the hole he sat back on his knees, leaning awkwardly to fit under the low clearance. With the pipe cutter he sliced the copper on either side of the break. He measured and cut a length of fresh pipe then moved into the process of flux, fit, solder. The heat and light from the blowtorch was a welcome respite from the cold that was biting deeper and deeper into his fingers and damp pants. He placed the new pipe and soldered one join. His angle was awkward, and his neck and back were starting to ache from the bend and the cold. He reached upward a final time, feeling the rough wood of the joists combing through his hair as he twisted himself into a good position. Finally he got the last joint done, and turned to place the torch and wire back in the box.

Suddenly his knee sank and sank some more. There was no bottom. Hands full of tools and a flashlight that shouldn't get any more wet, he vainly flung his arms up and to the right, trying desperately to shift his balance. It didn't matter. He prepared himself for a face full of mud, bracing for the chill as it oozed down his collar. Shit. Fuck. Damn! He held up the light as high as possible, hoping to keep it dry. The landing was soft and slow. Shoulder. Elbow. Face. Nose and top of head. But he didn't stop. The mud grabbed him, wrapping icy fingers up into his shirt, down his waistband. It oozed over him as he slid further and further sideways until he was, impossibly, upside-down and the mud thinned and he sank, kicking his feet up, grabbing with his heels at the edge -- what edge?!? -- and still he sank, muscular arms too dense to float. Then the flashlight was under and the dirty water glowed yellow and dim for a moment and he realized that he'd fallen into an abandoned septic tank. And still he sank, twisting desperately to get upright but the light failed and he couldn't tell up from down and his clothes were thick and heavy canvas and cotton and his jacket was good for weather, but not water. His boots sank faster and finally he was upright but still there was no bottom and the mud closed in above his head, a bizarre science experiment of bone dry dirt and water that had flowed and filled for days.

The homeowners were a little puzzled as to why the handyman hadn't turned the water back on at the street, but they figured it was a safety measure. They waited a couple of weeks for the bill and when none came they tried calling, but the voicemail box was full and after a couple of tries they kind of forgot about it. It was his problem, not theirs.

First Snow

The snow reflects the sky reflects the snow
We (the trees and bushes and dogs and i)
are immersed in light
None of us cast shadows

Trees weep, bending low
so their tattered rainment of gold and green make
still
quiet
frozen bowers gilded by the soft dawn

I pass below the trailing edge of a leaf
which sheds its icy burden
and springs upward in a
silent explosion of snow.

Chaff (Nightmare Fuel Day 15)

The reaper's blade threw chaff

like butterflies

glinting in the sunlight

and covered me

with dust

before the blade fell

Dogfest

You wonder why I call Stanley Demon Dog. Here's a brief video (smaller and quieter than real life) of what I get to experience for about 5 hours each day, or until I lose my patience and exile them to the back yard. 

Shard

The shard fell

fell fast as gravity

the gravity of the situation

fell on me

as the shard fell

fell like glass rain

the rain of blood drops

that dropped to the sink

and dripped

to the floor

and I sink

to the floor

the floor on which

my blood drops
dripped

in whorls and pools

a pool of darkness

into which

the shard fell

and so

shall

I

Inspired by Nightmare Fuel

Broccoli (Nightmare Fuel Prompt Day 12)

“Mom I'm not very hungry. Can I just eat this much broccoli and still get dessert?”

I lost it. I was tired of negotiating every meal. I was exhausted by the tantrums and the sense that I was losing a battle of wills with a five year old. I was weary of feeling society riding my shoulders, condemning my parenting and warning me that if she didn't eat her vegetables she was going to get fat and face a lifetime of self-loathing.

I admit it. My goddamn kids were spoiled. Most days I could deal with it, but I was catching a cold and I'd made a big mistake at work, and there wasn't even that much broccoli on the plate.

So yeah. There was a lot going on. Still doesn't excuse my actions. I'm sorry. Really. Yes, it felt REALLY good at the time. Petty, I know. But filling a donut with coagulating blood and making my kid eat the whole thing? Yeah, that was wrong.

Then again, she doesn't argue at dinner any more. And she's never gonna eat another donut.

Inspired by Nightmare Fuel
Donut