A Group, A Hillside, A Cave—The Dreams of the Walker.

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 It can be dangerous to live inside your own head, deadly sometimes too. But it is a job and I am good at it. 

We went into the cave. It is dark, the kind of dark where you have a sense of what is around but everything recedes from you. I sense the tall ceiling, the rough and smooth grey rock. There is a door on one side of the room. By door I do not mean a door with a knocker, a paint job and a peephole, but a two-foot tall barrier running across the room. A door that is as present as a mountain yet as easily crossed as breaking through a thin layer of ice on a puddle—the cautious pressure, the yield, the crunch and the instant disappointment. 

I know the blue aliens are on the other side. Long arms and legs, round eyes, skin of a blue morpho. And I know that they are evil and desperate to get through. We must prevent this.

The cave is dark. The group forces their way through the blackness. I was the last to go into the antechamber on the other side of the door. If ventured down the stair ten feet from in the antechamber, we would be in their realm and we would not be able to leave. I can see why the aliens want to leave, the ground covered in grey earth and clinging mist. Gnarled and black twisted roots loomed, treeless.

She had a possessed and distant look in her eyes, the woman who led the way. Through her clothes and pudge, I could see the dichotomy of muscle and knew she was strong.

I felt the terror of a life damned to the mist and didn’t want to risk a fight with the aliens. After all, I had not agreed to be here in the first place. The pull of a fight, the pull of time—the fight came any way and I killed them with my knife, plunged my fingers into their squishy eyes, tugging and ripping them out. Reached far into their skulls to confirm to myself of their death. They died quickly and they died easily.

Quite but not calm in the aftermath. The area has not changed and the grey blindness envelopes the carnage.

I returned to the antechamber to see Flora. She was sad and melancholy and had the possessed look of the group leader in her eyes. She was next to an old and dirty fridge, which had appeared while we were fighting. This fridge is beige, with the sign of years hanging off it and metal handle. I felt instantly wary. I tried to get Flora to leave the fridge, but I couldn’t. An old man from our party appeared to tell me sometimes this happens and there was nothing to be done. The fridge had a hold of her and its melancholy seeping out had gripped Hannah.

I am unwilling to give up. All I need is a new fridge, a new vice something to replace this morose one. A fridge that mists contentedness. Out the cave, down the hill—there is the road. Salvation would drive by. I could just trip up a truck carrying new fridges. Then I would carry that fridge up the mountain, into the cave. I would attach Hannah to this new fridge. A life attached, but ameliorated. As I hurry toward the road a truck stacked high with fridges passes, but I am still to far.

I am also feeling the awareness of wakefulness descending. I run faster, feeling no effect in chest or legs, knowing I must get Flora a fridge and knowing too I will be awake….

Awake. Feeling the dream’s clarity slipping away and the silliness of fridges and fear of mist return. I sigh and take off my dream helmet. 

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