Get a Move On!

I am with a group of people which includes friends and family, and a few strangers. We're running from a horde of undead zombies. These are about halfway between the totally mindless old movie zombies and the horrifying smart zombies I've faced before. They don't talk, and they really do look undead, but they have some ability to reason and figure out things like opening unlocked doors. We have learned that they can also figure out which direction we probably went based on evidence presented (like footprints, one door leading out and the other to a closet, etc.)

We're in an office or lab-type building, with long hallways and lots of rooms on either side. We're trying to get out of the building, with what seems like every zombie from miles around chasing us from behind. I'm in the back of the group, fighting to keep the zombies from getting my loved ones. I cannot seem to get the group to move any faster. No one has the same sense of urgency I do about being bitten. They're all focused on the idea that if they get infected, there will be some kind of cure. It has not occurred to them that if this horde gets their hands on us, there won't be anything left to cure.

I'm walking on the high ceiling to keep from getting grabbed and bitten. I'm using a makeshift weapon that fires an exploding shell to take out the front zombies and slow down the rest of them. I can see over my shoulder that the group is slowly walking toward the exit we've chosen, through which we can see a safe pathway outside. I keep yelling at them to run, and they keep looking back at me like I'm being unreasonable and pushy. Someone shouts back that they're moving, and they can see that it's under control, so why get frantic?   
 
The pile of dead zombies on the floor begins to get tall, and one female with patches of long blond hair sticking out of the side of her head (making her look a lot like the Cynthia doll from Rugrats) is struck with the realization that if she climbs, she can reach me. The other zombies don't yet seem to get that, but I realize that if they do, I'll be toast. At the same time, I run out of shells. I hit her with the weapon, but it's poorly made, and has taken as much force as it can. It breaks apart in my hands and falls to the floor. The zombie reaches up, grabs my hair, and pulls. Desperate, I reach down and shove her head so her chin hits her chest. I see that the flesh on her neck is rotten. I dig my fingers into the soft spots where the skin is kind of melty. It feels almost like sticking my fingers into warm spaghetti that's been in water too long... wet, squishy, a little ropey, and very slimy.

I rip handfuls of muscle and sinew off of the zombie's neck and shoulders until her spinal column is completely exposed. I realize this will not stop her from rending and biting. She's ignoring the attack - these zombies have no working pain sensors - and continuing to pull me down from the ceiling even as I push on her collarbone. I grab the spinal column with one hand, and the collarbone with the other. I pull on the spine until I hear a wet, crackling, crunching sound.

There is a pop, and a sudden release, and the bones in my hand come up, with a couple of feet of torn nerve tissue hanging down. There is no spray, because the zombies' blood does not circulate, but there is splatter from the force of the action. Drops of blood and spinal fluid hit the walls, the body, the pile, the zombies, and me. The body slumps and falls into the crowd of zombies, who begin mindlessly ripping it to shreds with their hands, but not eating. There is something about the virus that makes them violent toward anything unable to defend itself, but only hungry for living flesh.

I throw the head and spine to the floor, turn to shout again at my charges, and see them stopped, standing still, and staring at me in horror. When I look at them, their eyes turn to the shredding frenzy on the other side of the dead pile. They break and run for the door, not shoving each other, but finally rushing to get out. Behind them, I back away from the pile while the zombies are distracted by the body of the blond.

*****

The whole time we've been travelling, one of my friends has been berating her husband over mundane, innocent things. "Don't put your foot there. Why did you step in that spot? There was no indentation there, and now there is. You ruined it." All of us in the group had pointed out that she was being unreasonable, but it didn't stop her. Even her daughter was getting in on it, "telling" on her father to get him into "trouble" with her mother.

Finally, my mother in law yelled at her to just shut up. She told my friend off in no uncertain terms, pointing out that she had no right of approval over everything her husband did, and that she wasn't treating him as a man or an equal, but as her personal verbal punching bag. She told her to quit being so nitpicky over everything and just enjoy the fact that she had someone to love.

Since then, my friend remained quiet until we reached our next destination.

I've gotten my group into a house, where there's a secret opening to the sewer. That is where we are headed. We have learned that there is a community down there which has avoided infection and remained hidden and safe. It's defensible and self-sustaining, and new people are welcome, though we'll have to be isolated until they know we're not infected.

The opening to the sewer is behind one of the cushions in the couch in the corner living room, which has such huge picture windows on the two outside walls that it might as well not even be closed.

Once again, I'm facing the problem of getting people motivated. They have forgotten about the horde in the building. Even though we've encountered zombies along the way and lost two of our number (strangers, but we'd gotten to know and treasure them and are as heartbroken and weary as if we'd lost lifelong friends, not just sickened over the human deaths) the sense of urgency is gone because we no longer face an immediate threat. Members of the group are looking for things in the house to grab and take with them. I'm frantic because there are not curtains or shades on the windows, and I'm sure that any minute, we'll be spotted by the zombies wandering outside and pursued again.

Most of them aren't looking for anything valuable, like tools, food, survival books, or potential weapons. Instead, someone grabs a video game console, despite being told we won't be able to plug it in. Another grabs dress shoes and make-up, and a third is going through the household's freezer for goodies. My nagging friend is grabbing unimportant little things she thinks her female friends would like - beads, make-up, dice for gaming, and other similar items which would not be useful for survival. The husband finds a well-stocked liqueur cabinet, and grab several bottles of high-proof hard liqueur. I know he's grabbing it for drinking purposes, but I hope he gets it to the colony intact, because I see the potential use of it as a disinfectant for wounds, and the glass bottles as weapons.

Only two men (my husband and a friend) and my kids are focused on survival. The men grab a toolbox, a bag of survival manuals and fixit books, and a shotgun shell-stuffing kit with supplies (but no gun can be found.) The girls grab everything in the medicine cabinet, and everything in the cleaning cabinet, which they shove into a duffel bag before heading for the living room while shouting for everyone else to hurry. My son grabs a big bag of canned food and boxed cereal. He puts trash bags over it, then throws two more at the other kids for their bag of first aid stuff, and shoves the box into his bag.

Zombies spot us through the windows. I point this out to the group, and start pushing people to head for the living room. The zombies attack the front door as we run for the living room, everyone weighed down by objects they're taking with them. At this point, we're trying to stuff 80 people into a 4' by 4' hole, so it's slow going, and fairly quickly the zombies realize they can come at us through the picture windows. I and two others are fighting them off, one at the living room doorway with a broken mop handle, stabbing at eyes and open mouths with the pointed end to create a wall of dead bodies, and two at the windows with kitchen knives (which I grabbed when the zombies spotted us) and a meat tenderizing hammer.

It takes several minutes to get everyone into the hole. The doorway guard has filled the hall with bodies, and nothing can get through behind him. We send him through the hole, then start backing toward it. My ally, a teenage nephew, wants me to go first because I am a girl. I insist that he go first because he's young and healthy, while I am not. The argument lasts seconds - him insisting I'm the leader and therefore needed, me insisting that he better get his ass in there before we both die.

Finally, I shove him through the hole. As I do, one of the zombies gets around the pile of dead in front of us, and grabs my arm. I barely avoid getting bitten, shove the hammer down the zombie's throat, and kick it into the crowd behind it. They fall onto it, ripping and shredding at its clothing and flesh. While they are distracted, I jump into the hole, slide the door closed, and lock it from the inside. The mechanism to unlock on the outside is complicated (easily used by a living human, but a challenge for a zombie,) but I fear that eventually they'll figure it out if they remember we're in here long enough to get through the mental process. Their attention span in the absence of visible prey is short, so I'm hoping they'll just leave.

The way down into the sewer involves a series of tunnels that are like amusement park water slides made of cement. It's hard to navigate, filthy, foul smelling, and dangerous, but the group seems to mostly be doing okay with it. I'm helping my mother and a few others with physical difficulties.

In the upper tunnels, we encounter a couple of recently turned zombies, and I again have to send the group on without me. This time, they listen, taking the initiative to guard the kids and get them to safety while I keep the zombies from pursuit. Again, I find myself beheading one, using the kitchen knife I still have in my hand. When the head comes off, the other zombie attacks the body, ignoring me as I stab up into its brain and twist the knife to sever the spine.

I leave the two bodies in the way of future pursuers, and turn to go down the next tunnel, hoping I can catch up with my group before they run into anything else. I know my immediate family will protect them, but I don't want my loved ones to get hurt. I'm filled with anxiety at the thought that something else may get to them before I do.

The Game

I have had this dream 3 nights in a row, last night being the most recent. It's really vivid and graphic, with blood actually flying through the air and hitting me and my surrounding props.    
  
My friends and I are in a huge arena, a lot like the Roman Colosseum was in its day. I and another player are at a table in the middle. I have one really important card that is highly coveted. I don't know how I got it, but if I lose, the other player gets it for his team. I'll win if I play it, but it is going to wreck something huge and put something else huge ahead in another game that is bigger and more broad. What we are doing right now is encompassed in that game, but we are not the main players. The two huge things are. If I don't win this game, the bad huge thing might defeat the good huge thing, and if he does, he will crack down on his subordinates, some of whom are my friends, have "turned," and are now playing on my side.   
   
We are surrounded by ongoing violent and bloody gladiator-style battles. We are playing cards in the midst of this, as if doing so is normal. There is blood on the table. It's so close and there's so much of it around, I can smell it. I can also smell sweat and, and there's that feeling that happens in the nose when there's metal in the air. I can hear screaming, shouting, and grunting, metal hitting metal, fists hitting flesh, and the occasional wet "shlock" sound of something sharp slicing into a limb. Every time I hear that sound, it takes monumental effort for me to not gag and throw up on the cards.    
   
My friends make up half of the combatants around us. Each is paired off an enemy tough enough to seriously endanger them, and in most cases, with the serious possibility of death. I know if I don't play the card, at least one of my friends will beat his or her attacker and go on to help the others, but the battle will be long and bloody, painful and damaging, and we risk losing some of our own. I know if I play the card, there will be peripheral damage in the stands among the cheering section for the other side. Those are people who support the other side, but who aren't gladiators in the match.   
  
I look around at those people and at my friends, and agonize over playing the card, thinking that maybe I should just get up and fight instead. Maybe I could tip the scales, and save my friends, without harming civilians. I want to protect the civilians even though they are enemies, basically just because they are not fighters. I don't know if they're misled, or if they're complacent, or even willing, as they could be. I just know they're not fighters, and they could never hit me back as hard as I could hit them.   
   
Among my friends, I see frustration, anger, and some fear. Then, looking past them to the stands where the enemy cheering section is, I see eagerness and hatred. These people want to see my friends die in battle. They're screaming for blood. That makes up my mind, and I start to lower my card to the table.

This is where the dream ended on the first two nights. Last night, there was this:

I can see my hand and the card slowly descending to the table. At the same time, my opponent's face is in plain sight, jaw dropping and eyes widening. I can hear him yelling, "NO! Don't do it! You'll kill us all!"

The card touches the wood, and immediately flattens down as if I slammed it instead of just placing it. A burst of air shoots out from underneath as it hits, blowing all of the other cards off of the table onto the dirt at our feet.

There is a loud booming noise, and I feel the air pressure changing. Hot wind is blowing in my face, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I can hear my friends yelling and running toward me. Through the curtain of my eyelashes, I can see panic on the enemy side of the stands, and the enemy gladiators, bloodied but not beaten in battle, retreating to the opening in the bottom rows. My companions yell that we have to get out of here before the big blast. I can see that our cheering section has all ready evacuated, the last of them pouring out through an exit off to my right.

I am grabbed by many hands, and half-carried, half-dragged out toward the exit. I can see a green, grassy field on the other side. As we reach it, there's another explosive sound behind us, this one so deafening that at first I think it burst my eardrums.

That noise woke me so hard I jumped and nearly fell on the floor. It was louder than the bang you hear when a dud firecracker goes off on the 4th, and was followed by a rumble like thunder that for a second, followed me into wakefulness. At first, I thought there was a thunderstorm, but it's sunny and relatively clear outside, just a few fluffy white clouds in the sky. The noise had to be all in my head.

Cuz that's how it is

After I had the first dream, I woke momentarily and then went back to sleep. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming from the perspective of a little kid, and feeling like one, too. There was no sense of schedule, work, or anything except what was interesting or fun, and what was not interesting or fun, and a sense of being close to and guided by the person I was with. 

An older kid is watching me for the day, a distant family member I always call Cuz-cuz even though he's more distant than a cousin. I call him that, and he calls me "Vic," the pronunciation of a shortened version of my name. As usual when we're together, he's brought me to a playground, where I've found a new toy I hadn't noticed the last time I was here. The toy is fascinating. It hasn't got any of the buttons or levers that many of the other toys in the playground do. It's not made to be climbed on or played in. It's a brain teaser.

I've discovered that if I focus on the little blue and brown ball inside the glass, I can make it spin and whirl, change the shape of it, and even make it blow up in a fiery explosion, after which it will slowly re-form. I've become so entranced with the toy that I've actually got my fingers and my nose pressed against the glass. I've blown it up about fifty times, but I've tired of that and am instead shaping the surface of it, making hills and valleys, watching the blue liquid on the exterior flow into the deeper areas if I move the surface where it sits.

My attention is so fully taken up with what I am doing that I don't notice the approach of a bigger kid, until he says, "What are you doing, freak?" Looking over, I see that he's taller than me, outweighs me, and looks cross. I'm not even bothered by the nickname. All the kids call me that because I look different from them. My eyes are a weird color. My skin is, too, and my hair. Of course they aren't going to understand.

Also, there are things they do that I don't, and things I do that they can't. There are things I like that they think are weird. I have learned to not act too different from them when they are around, but in this case I've been caught. None of the other kids would play with the ball inside the glass the way I am. They would just keep ripping it apart, and if they could, blowing it up.

As if to drive that point home, the boy smashes my masterpiece against the bottom of the case, flattening the ball out like a big fat brown-and-blue pancake. I tell him that I was playing with that. He smirks and laughs, and starts slamming it around rapidly inside the case, kneading it until the brown and blue mix to make a runny black tar. When I look away from him, he starts taunting me.

"Awe, you gonna cry, freak? Waaaah! Did the poor widdow baby wanna keep it fowevew? You little dumbass, everyone likes to break that thing. It would have been someone else if it hadn't been me. Why don't ya do something about it?"

He knows that I'm not allowed, but he doesn't know why. I hit harder than the other kids, even the bigger ones. I hit in ways they can't, and in ways against which they cannot defend. So, I'm not allowed to hit at all.  Whenever this happens, we usually just leave the playground and go for a walk in the woods, where Cuz-cuz tells me the names of all of the plants, or tells me stories about the conquering heroes who won this home for 'our' people. He always says 'our,' even though we both know I'm not really part of the community. I'm really, really mixed. That makes me different, and as I am learning, different is bad.

I take my fingertips off of the glass, turn my back on him, and start to walk away like I've been taught. The bully follows, pushing me from behind so that I fall down. Cuz-cuz decides to get involved. I hear footsteps, and from above my position, his voice. "You should leave this one alone."

I hear the bully snort and make a lewd suggestion as to what my sitter can do with his time. Cuz-cuz, says in a very serious voice, "How old do you want to be when you die?"

The bully laughs out loud and says, "What are you gonna do about it?"

Cuz-cuz tells me to get up. I do. The bully reaches, and Cuz-cuz slaps his hand away, then kneels down beside me so that he's my height. His eyes are kind, but sad. He says, "You know when you're with me, I'm the boss, right?"

I nod. The bully snorts again, swats again, and is rebuffed by another smack of the hand. Cuz-cuz turns and tells him he'd better quit, or he'll have both of us to deal with. The bully starts taunting again, but Cuz-cuz ignores that, takes both of my hands to direct my attention to himself, and starts talking to me again. I follow his lead, watch his eyes, and listen.

He says, "Okay, then. Think of this like a test. You have limited permission. You may cause non-lethal, non-injurious torment. Do you understand? No injury, nothing lethal. Got it?" His eyes are focused on me, filled with the intensity of an adult trying to get a vital point across, even though he's barely an adolescent. I realize that he's taking a risk. He's allowed to give me this kind of permission in more serious situations, but not like this. The adults don't think I'm ready to tell the difference yet. They don't think I can keep it under control. Cuz-cuz is supposed to take me home when I'm bullied, but he's letting me hit back because we're tired of not being able to go anywhere.

This is his responsibility. The adults have made that very clear. He's not just protecting me from the other kids. He's supposed to be protecting them from me, too. I know that if I screw this up, he'll be the one in trouble, not me, but it will also mean the adults won't trust me for a long time. This is a test of my maturity and my self-restraint.

I nod. I am resolved to not harm the boy. I just want to make sure he understands that he's not picking on a wimp. I can hear him still taunting, only now he's making fun of Cuz-cuz. "Such big words for such a little kid. Do you really think the freak understands what you're saying?"

Without looking away from me, Cuz-cuz lets go with his right hand, reaches out and grabs the bully's neck, slams his face into the glass with a loud thunk, then lets go and takes my hands again. "Don't call her that, you little asshole!" he says, not even looking away from me. Then, to me, he says, "You sure you're ready, Vic?"

I nod again, and just so he knows I'm up to speed, I tell him, "No boom, no blood, right?" Cuz-cuz smiles, and nods back at me. "You got it, Vic. Show him."

He lets go of my hands, puts one of his on each of my shoulders, and turns me to face the bully. By now, there are other kids gathered around, seeing that we haven't just fled the park and wondering what is going to happen next. Secure with Cuz-cuz behind me, one arm across my chest, and both of his hands resting on my left shoulder, I look at the boy and tell him he's a big meanie. He laughs, turns to the other kids, and says, "Awe, did you guys hear that? I'm a big meanie! Oh, no... whatever will I do?" He rubs his eyes melodramatically, and the other kids laugh.

For a moment, I can feel my temper creeping in. I really don't want to let it take over, because I don't want to let Cuz-cuz down. He's doing something for me that no one else has. He's loosening my leash, just a little bit, in hopes that I won't have to put up with this any more. By doing that, he's risking severe punishment should his choice lead to anything worse than a schoolyard scrap. I can feel that he's ready to grab me and run should I go off, but I also know that by the time he could, it would be too late.

I reach up and give his hand a squeeze, and loose the building anger into the case, attacking the ball, instead of the boy. I let the energy make the ball rapidly explode and reform itself over and over for a few seconds, filling the case with fire and sludge, until the edge is spent and I'm feeling more level-headed again. The kids watch as the toy goes ballistic, the dark substance smacking against the glass, and fire lighting it up over and over... boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-BOOM! until I stop, and turn my eyes back to the now quiet bully.

The bully is losing confidence. He starts to bluster. "You ain't allowed to hit back, and I know it. You can't do anything to me. You better not."

I feel a little uncertain for a moment, but Cuz-cuz's voice behind me reminds me, "It's all right, Vic. You're allowed. Just remember to stay within the perimeters I gave you." I can feel his heart thumping against my back. He's scared. He knows the risk he's taking. Again, I squeeze his hand to let him know I'm all right. I'm not going to let him down.

Suddenly it hits me how cool this is. I'm finally going to get a little of my own back, and maybe scare this guy off of me for good. Maybe from now on the other kids, even if they're not going to like me, will at least stop being so mean. Even though I'm not allowed to really hit back, what I CAN do will be quite enough. Giggles bubble up inside, and I let them out, shooting their energy forward and wrapping it around the boy.

As the sense of exuberance wraps around him, he starts to look nervous, then grossed out as if I'd wrapped him in sewer slime. He starts trying to wipe it off of his skin, shouting, "What the hell? What are you doing to me? Stop it, you little shit!"

I start to shape the energy, still giggling at the sense of freedom and release, and begin to push it under the surface. Seconds later, his skin is a perfect match to mine, and his eyes have changed from their natural burning red to match the deep blue of the toy in the case. Looking at his hands, the boy screams wildly and begins scratching. I ask him what's wrong, doesn't he like his new look? He turns to me and demands that I change him back, right now. I ask him what if I don't? What is he going to do?

The boy threatens to beat me. I tell him to go ahead. Even with Cuz-cuz behind me, holding onto my shoulders, the bully advances, swinging his fist. As soon as he does, I make a thick, squishy wall of molded energy between us. His hand smashes into it, instead of into me. When he feels it, he punches with the other hand, both fists sinking deep in to the invisible substance, clear up past his wrists. I harden the wall, trapping him, then walk around it so I'm behind him. The other kids all move away, gasping. Feeling powerful even though I've done my tormenter no harm, I climb up onto a rock and lean over to speak quietly into his ear, telling him never to pick on anyone again, because I'll be watching. The bully, terrified because he is trapped and feeling helpless, babbles his agreement and begs me to let him go. I tell him the truth, that I've not done anything permanent. I'm holding back a lot, so everything I've changed will work itself back to normal in a few moments, but for now, I'm not going to undo what I did. He's stuck like that. He wails like a little kid whose candy was just taken away. I ignore him.

I turn and tell the other kids he's on punishment. They all know that phrase, and they know what it means. When the adults say it, it means leave that kid alone. Don't pick, because we want him to focus on whatever it is we're trying to enforce right now. You stay out of it. They all quietly turn and walk away, just as if an adult had said the phrase, and I realize that the other kids have just afforded me authority. They're responding to me not as the freak, but as the boss. I have just stepped up a lot in the playground pecking order. Maybe I will have to remind them sometimes, but from now on, I'm not the kid on whom everyone else takes out their bad-day frustration. I turn to see Cuz-cuz's approving smile. I ask him if we can go for a walk now, and he tells me I've earned it. He stands up and takes my hand, and we start to walk away.

I can feel the changes all ready wearing off of the bully. His freckles are disappearing with little popping noises. Soon, his skin will be back to normal, then his eyes, and finally, the wall will disappear, freeing him. I don't know if he'll forget his fear and pick again, or if he'll remember and stay away, but at least this was fun while it lasted, and even better, Cuz-cuz is proud of me. That makes the trip more worthwhile than anything.

I only hope he doesn't get into trouble for letting me do this.

That scene faded into the kind of walk in the woods I'd been remembering before, with "Cuz-cuz" telling me names of things and talking about how to use them. The experience felt a lot like hanging out with an older sibling. This was someone who I had to obey if he gave an order, but who didn't have the full authority of a parent. He felt like a source of sometime comfort, but not a source of discipline. There was a sense of the kind of love and admiration a little kid has for a related older kid who offers time, attention, and genuine affection... of wanting his approval, and the enjoyment of feeling important to him... but the entire experience was also clouded over by the worry that the incident at the park was going to get him into trouble with the adults in charge. I woke with that sense of worry intact, because the dream ended while we were still in the woods.

Darkness Calls

It's really dark, and there's something wrong with my eyes. My eyelids hurt and feel swollen. I can't open them enough to see even if it weren't dark, but the dimness makes it even worse. I can barely make out what's in front of my face, a rough wall of stone masonry, ending about a foot away from me in a flat edge. Beyond that, about another six inches, is a dark metal bar, probably iron. I lift my hands up to my face and see that my fingers are stained with blood, and the fingers on my left hand are swollen to twice their normal size, flesh puffing around the delicate, ornate ring I wear on that finger. I can't get any of them to bend. They just won't obey my commands. The clothing I'm wearing - not my clothing - is torn and also stained.  
  
My head hurts. The skin on my back burns. I can't breathe with my mouth closed. I can tell by the all too familiar pain radiating from the bridge of my nose down into my front teeth and out to the sides under my eyes, it's broken.

Every breath is a struggle anyway, a sharp ache stabbing into me each time I try to inhale, even sharper when I try to let it back out.

Where the hell am I, and why am I so battered?

I can't remember. I can't remember coming here, can't remember anything before this moment except the image of a face, and a sense of urgency. That urgency still pounds inside my heart. My friend needs my help. Someone is hurting her, and someone she loves is in even greater danger.

Mixed with the urgency is a sense of helpless frustration, and behind that, a terrible, profound anger that will mean death for whoever has disabled her, just as soon as she gets free.

I have to find a way to get up and get out of here. I have to get where she is and undo whatever it is that's being used to keep her in check. If I can just do that, it'll be all that's needed to get us out of here. She'll destroy this place, and those who run it, and no one will ever be held here again.

I focus on the ring on my left hand. Through it, I can feel a channel almost like a phone line, letting me send my state of mind, my emotions, and some thoughts to those who wear the other two just like it. Trying to feel the connection, I instead run up against a wall of sheer, solid, white-hot agony.

My head explodes inside, and for what seems like an eternity, nothing exists except brightness and fiery, cutting torture shooting down my back, across my shoulders and hips, down my arms and legs, and my mind is screaming at me

no god no please make it stop make it stop make it stop
and I just want to die, stop feeling, anything to make this go away.

I can hear someone screaming, the voice slamming through me like a blast of winter wind, vibrating in my chest and ripping over my raw, dry throat. When I feel it, I realize it's me, my voice coming out of my body, completely out of my control, ending in a ragged, whining sob as a long, jagged crack splits the light, and the punishment starts to fade.  
  
I'm cold. Freezing, shivering on the stone floor, I listen to the sound of deep hissing laughter on the other side of the bars. Sounding almost like the stage whisper of a baritone, the voice on the other side invites me to try again, praising the flavor of the energy produced by my suffering and begging me for another taste. Nausea rises in my throat, and I shrink back against the wall in despair, until a quiet answer comes through the back of my mind.

"Shhh...  I hear you. Be still, but don't give up. I'm on my way."

I don't dare hope, don't dare believe that isn't my imagination. It's too much. I've been here before... not in this building, but in this place. I know that whiteness, that pain. I'm blocked. I can't call out. No one can hear me, and that voice is just wishful thinking.

Except...
Except the whiteness has never cracked like that before. 'Maybe' tries to bloom in my heart... but maybe won't do the job. Maybe is a drug, and I can't afford to be that weak, not if I'm going to help her, and if I don't, we're all sunk.

I drag myself forward, sitting up, and my tormenter laughs again. "Come on, now." The voice may come out as a whisper, but he can still sound snotty. "Did you really think I'd let you call for your friends? How many times are you gonna do that? What do you think is gonna happen if they show up? There are hundreds of us, and only a few of you. You're hopeless."

I don't think so. Defiance and rises in my chest, peppered with resentment of everything that voice represents. I struggle to sit up, push my eyes open as far as I can, glaring out at the thing on the other side of the bars, watching it enjoy my anger and hate as much as it savors my pain. The dark shadow of a robed form stands tall, barely defined against the greater darkness behind it, highlighted only by the depth of the crimson slits that stare back at me from under its broad cowl. The darkness below those narrow eyes splits into a wide, toothy grin. "Stubborn child. Why don't you just give up and come home?"

Black, bitter acrimony floods my heart. This again? I said no. I meant no.

Leaning forward until my face nearly touches the cold metal, I force my sore throat to produce one more time, then another, spitting the words through lips that feel parched, chapped, and swollen.

"Fuck."

"You."

Pushing hard with the second word, I throw what little energy I have left at the shadowy figure. It stumbles back with a surprised grunt, then laughs again, and raises an arm draped in darkness. Knowing it is probably going to hit me with something awful, I brace myself against the bars, closing my eyes against the anticipated blast just as two more pools of bright redness approach from behind my tormenter. Two of them... I can't take two. I am going to die. This is it. If they can't force me to do what they want, they'll kill me for resisting.

What else can I do to defend myself? I have no weapon, no way to call, nothing left but my greatest weakness of all, the void that hurts to maintain, yet hurts more to fill. I see no other choice. If I'm going down, I'm at least taking one of them with me.

Opening myself to the blow, I lift my chin and let myself take the full force of it right in the face. When it hits, lifting me from the floor and throwing me ten feet back against the wall, I grab onto the foul, repugnant essence and pull with all of my hunger, feeling it pool inside my heart like a pile of contaminated soil. The redness within the cowl widens in surprise, and the toothy grin drops into a pained grimace.

God, this thing's energy is disgusting... feels like I'm swallowing rancid food. I struggle to stop myself from throwing it back yet, knowing I'm going to need it to save myself when the next one attacks. The monster outside my cell begins to struggle and scream, trying to pull back its malevolent attack, but I am determined to hold on. Digging in, I open my eyes to try to gage the effect of this tactic on my enemy and the potential threat of its approaching ally.

That tiny, budding hope that I'd crushed moments ago blazes through me with my second look at the other red eyes, now rushing forward as his black sword falls across the monster's shoulder, slashing through the darkness to reveal the thunderous glare I hadn't dared to expect to see. The monster's shocked face falls to one side, his body to the other, and my companion steps over the corpse, slamming that blade through the steel barrier between us and shattering the bars. I feel myself falling, prepare for the pain as my legs hit the stone, but instead, I tumble over his arm and shoulder. Darkness tries to close in on my vision, my mind ready to collapse now that the immediate danger is gone.

No! Not yet...

"They took..." I start to tell him where she is, but he interrupts.

"The others are there now. We're going," he tells me, but he's giving me an odd look, studying my aura. Setting me on my feet, he asks, "You all right?"

He's looking at my face, bruised and inflamed, my two overly respectable shiners, and my broken, bleeding nose. I can see his heart breaking yet again, just like it does every time they take any of us. Hurt pinches his red eyes, his fingertips brushing my jaw as he gently runs his thumb across my swollen, dried out lip.

No, I'm not all right. My friends are in trouble, and I'm in pain, and it's happening over, and over, and over. This is hell. We keep going through this again and again... they take her, or they take me. They do terrible things to whoever they have, while the rest of us scramble to the rescue, fighting off the darkness to bring our loved ones back to safety and home. We try to rest up, plan to hit them back so they'll know not to keep messing with us, but before we're ready, they always strike again. I'm sick of it... so tired, and so angry.

"Not yet, but I will be." I tell him, touching his wrist with the broken fingers on my left hand, totally forgetting until the pain shoots through my bones. Seeing me flinch, he draws back under the assumption that it's him setting it off, until he sees the flesh puffing out around the ring. His eyes flick back to mine, and I shrug, ignoring the daggers that shoot through my ribs when I do. "I told them no again."

Stepping around him, I head down the dark hall in the direction from which I feel her call. He shouts at me to stay back, that I've had enough. I should let my friends handle this... but I can't. I'm furious, and I've swallowed a ball of that monster's hatred and fear, and I can't get it out. My friends are in danger, and we're all stuck in this awful place until we beat down whoever it is this time that had the nerve to meddle. I reach back with my good hand, grab one of his, and pull him along down the hall, listening to him trying to talk me out of it until he realizes how pissed I am. When he stops talking, I stop walking for a moment, and look back to see that he's resigned to the situation. "It's okay," he says. "Just don't overdo it, all right?"

I nod. I'll try, at least. That's the best I can do.

In the distance, I hear a gurgling sound, and I know that's where she is. Turning back, I head for the noise, moving as quickly as my beaten up old body will allow.

The hall opens into another, wider corridor. At the other end, through a set of double doors, we hear that gurgling getting louder, and then there's a tormented scream. His eyes widen, and he grabs me around the waist. "No time!" he growls, and suddenly the walls are a blur, then the doors are in my face. I hear him slam them open, and we're standing in what looks like the operating room of a hospital from hell. Blood cakes the floor, and is splattered across instruments on the walls that seem to serve no purpose but to inflict pain; twisted hooks, long, sharp blades, tweezers with strangely shaped points, bone saws, and circular blades with jagged teeth and dark, mysterious stains.

I see my friends struggling against smaller shadows, and people in dark clothing with knives and clubs, trying to beat their way through guards and lab assistants to rescue those they've taken. In the midst of them, I find that one set of wide blue eyes, flashing angrily at the shadows, turning her power into charm, mesmerizing, and then tripping them into defeat, each attack moving like an exotic dance across the dark and slippery floor. She falters when she spots me, almost failing to dodge the strike of a shadow's blade, and then she is spinning away, blue eyes darting back to give me an uncertain glance before sinking her own dagger into the creature's hidden throat.

In the middle of the room standing next to a dark metal table with a supine figure on it is a shadow like the one from outside my cell, looking bizarre in the white coat and green scrubs of a hospital surgeon. On its cowled head is a band with a mirror to reflect the light down onto his 'patient,' my distraught and writhing friend.

Laying on the table in a pool of her own blood, she is split open from her jaw to her groin, and that monster has his hands inside that opening, pawing at her heart like it belongs to him. We've gotten there before he could take anything out this time, but just barely. On the other side is another of those monsters, probably an assistant, emitting a dark, liquid energy from his hands into her head. That must be what is keeping her alive and awake.

Beyond her there is a cage hanging from the ceiling. Inside is the kid, clinging to the bars, screaming and sobbing that she'll be good, she'll be good... just please stop cutting and let her go. She is as battered as I am, and I can see burn marks on her skin from trying to use her own power to stop this. I know that cage, and I know the blinding torture that has hit her every time she tried. I know what they're doing. They think she's theirs, and they want her back, want to make sure she doesn't run again, so they're teaching her a lesson. Don't love people; if you love people, we'll have to hurt them. And they've hung her up to watch, made her helpless, subjected her to this. She's battered herself against the bars and the block so much that she's barely conscious, exhausted and in obvious pain, but she's still begging these monsters to spare our friend.

Suddenly, the whole of existence is shifting sideways in front of me. My vision snaps, blurs, darkens, then disappears for just a second as cataclysmic fury boils up through my gut, over my chest and throat, to fill my head with pressure and heat. When I can see again, everything is deep, searing red. I can feel myself getting taller, my teeth scratching against my lips, my head getting heavier, my limbs twisting and churning as my body tries to hold in whatever shape the rage is taking. My fingers, my ribs, and my nose unbreak, the bones lengthening and fusing, claws extending from my hands, and a low growl building up in my rapidly expanding chest.

I look at my companion. He's actually looks like he is going to back away from me for just a moment, but he doesn't. "Get them out of here," I try to say, but can only manage to growl the words. Understanding slowly makes its way across his startled face. I glare around the room, taking in the battle and the injuries my friends have once again suffered, and move forward, ready to address the monster with his hands inside my friend's chest. My head pounds with stored energy that was not there before, and I feel myself drawing more, sucking it out of everything in the room; the floor, walls, and ceiling, the equipment, the monsters... this place is going to come down.  
 
My treasure glances back at me as our companion shouts at everyone to grab our friends and get out. Her blue eyes fill with dread and tears, and she stumbles away from me, grabbing the one we call the Doc by the arm to keep from falling. Seeing me, then her, he turns away and launches her toward the iron cage and the kid, telling her to bring it down and get the girl.

The monster hurting my friend lifts his dripping hands and turns toward me, head cocked in confusion and surprise, unaccustomed to being interrupted or challenged, and the Doc takes that opportunity to grab the table and pull it toward the cage. My companion puts his hands on the other end, as the rest of the team rushes to their aid, everyone avoiding the sight of my warped and still-changing form. It looks like the monster, my friends, the tables and equipment... everything in the room is getting smaller. Or maybe I'm growing, I think... that must be it.

A flash of crystal blue stuns the guy blocking the mechanism that raises and lowers that cage, and controls the block on her power. One of the guys beats the machine to shards and chunks, and the door of the cage is opened. The group grabs both of them and then there is a flash of deep, golden light, and they're gone, out of my way so that I can let go. Turning back to the monster, who is now fully facing me and beginning to advance, I drop my jaw as far as it will fall, take a deep breath, and howl at him, letting the rage, pain, and hatred flow into that sound.

It strikes him right in the chest, throwing him through the wall full of torturous gadgets, several of them stabbing through him on the way by. Chaos descends upon the room as the guards and assistants scramble, some to escape, others to attack, but they're too late. They should have hit me before I had the chance to see their crimes. As the monster slams through the wall, I reach out again, breathing deeply and drawing in more of the ambient power, making the whole building brittle and cold. We were all together before they disappeared. We were all at home, minding our own business, just being us. We hadn't done anything to these freaks. The fury burns into the energy, growing as I reach out and drain the ones nearest me until they drop to the floor, dead.

Outrage fills my being, and I let it burst away from me in all directions, feeling the heat move against every object in my sight. Flammables begin to ignite, slowly at first, until the second wave goes out and everything bursts into flame. Screams erupt from the living, the men beating on themselves, and the shadows falling to the ground, writhing. The monster caves in on himself, howling in agony and pulling at his clothes, trying to get out of the burning fabric, but it's too late. I let the third wave out with a scream, "Stay out of my HOUSE!" 

The blast that follows propels every single thing away from me; bodies of the dead, the living, the still flaming monster with the bloodstained hands, the tables and stands, tools, and the stones that made up the floor, walls, and ceiling. Everything blows out, flying away, falling away, and I drop through the space where the floor was just in time to avoid the backlash from that last boom. The sound of thunder over my head reminds me that there is more building above, and I look up to see it falling toward me.

Not there... no, there's not a building. I don't want it. I want it gone. The thought sends out the last of the power I absorbed, and I watch as the stone disintegrates into dust, taking the support from beneath more of those shadows and rough looking men, dropping them past me onto the ground below with a horrible round of solid, wet, smacking noises as they hit the rubble of the building's bottom floor.

I feel myself falling, the ground floor and the debris gaining size rapidly as I begin to diminish, the distortion of my form fading along with the rage and the power that I no longer need. It's over, and I'm done, spent and exhausted. I want to go home, crawl into my house, snuggle up to my companions, and drop out of all awareness.

In that second, I'm hit with the pain of seeing her last look at me - eyes wide with terror and rebuke - before she was sent away to help our friends. It had taken a huge leap of faith for her to accept me the last time I went off like this, and the only reason she'd come back was that she couldn't bring her self to hurt someone she loved. She told me she was still afraid, but she couldn't tear my beautiful heart. My mind latches onto that memory, but it doesn't still the growing fear. Will it be enough that she thinks that way of my heart... enough to keep her from hating and fearing my ugly, twisted soul?

Instead of landing in the rubble, I fall face down onto the beach outside my house, longing having brought me as close to home as I dare to go. From inside, I can see two golden lights, one from the Doc, and the other belonging to the little girl. I know that my friend will be all right. They're healing her wounds now. Doc must be teaching the kid how to do what he does. She's certainly capable. Glad, I rest my face on the sand. I'm here... I plan to go in when my courage returns.

I don't get a chance to make that choice. Running out into the sand, my companions fall beside me, turning me onto my back and rising with me, pulling me to my feet. I am surrounded by the two of them, his patient, long-suffering sigh, and her sobs. Surprise and aching relief keep me silent, spilling over my will and onto my face. She draws back, using her thumb to wipe away my tears. I try to tell her I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to get so mad, but she shakes her head and pats me on the cheek with her fingers. I don't know if that means it's okay, or that I shouldn't bother, but with exhaustion taking its toll, I don't have the strength to ask her. I let the two of them turn me to face the door and guide me inside to rest.

Well, that was strange

This one needs a little background, or you won't understand why I'm weirded out.

Last weekend, I went to my parents' house to help move furniture and stuff so they could use a downstairs room for a bedroom instead of the upstairs. While I was there, my Mom told me she's been having nightmares like mine, and she described some of them. It's highly unusual for Mom to even have nightmares at all, much less involving specific things that have been present in some of my weirdest ones. 

Mom isn't used to this, and she was really shaken up by some of the painful attacks she'd experienced. Unable to help her get past what she'd dreamed, I decided the best route was to help her get the tools she needed to deal with future nightmares, instead. We spent hours, while working in the room, talking about techniques I use in my dreams to fight monsters by using things that can't be done in the real world, like magic and flying. Mom can fly in her dreams, so I know that she can use other lucid techniques. I told her that when she gets ready to go to sleep, she should repeat to herself over and over that she'd be strong and capable in her dreams, that she'd know she could fight and win. Before going to sleep, she should focus on being aware that she's not in the real world, and that she can do anything. It's what I learned from the lucid dreaming book I had in high school, and though I haven't been able to completely make use of the techniques, that one thing (being able to fight back) got through.

I told her that if worse came to worst, when impossible things are happening to her and she gets really scared again, if she can't fight back she should focus really hard on me, and I'd fight for her. I went on to describe some of my battles, and how I am able to move and shape things.  If it comes down to that, by telling her that, I've given her the image, figuring that when she did have a nightmare, if she "called" me, she'd experience the defense I described, because that would be the image she had of me. 

Then, with Mom's consent, I did some energy work, using a candle as a focus. I designated the candle's energy to represent the forging of a connection between how she feels in her dreams and how I fight in mine. I linked that to how she fights in real life, given that she never backed down when she was in city politics, even when the local police were stalking her. I charged that as the candle burned, it would release energy that would bring out Mom's own strong will, and would bring up in the part of her subconscious involved in the dream state some automatic defenses that would stop anything scary or painful from happening. If the nightmares were a psychic attack, the connection would call me to her, and I'd be able to handle it from there.


All week, she's said she's been fine, no bad dreams or anything. Then, last night, just as I was drifting off, it felt like someone who shouldn't be touching me was. In my semi-conscious state, I visualized and half-experienced reaching out and grabbing someone by the shirt with my left hand, and punching the shit out of his jaw with my right, so close to dream-vivid that I actually heard the smacking sound my fist made against his skin and the grunt of his voice. Then, when I was all the way asleep, I had this.


I'm on that stretch of beach again, city off to my left, water on my right, and that little snack shack that doesn't sell snacks, looking smaller than ever in the distance ahead. My first thought is to wonder why I'm here, but that doesn't last long, as a confused, irritated voice calls out from behind me. "What the... Where is this place? Who the hell are you?"

I spin around to see a group of rough looking men, all huge, standing together on my beach. They look really out of place, staring at the white sand, dark sky, and choppy water. Glaring at the one nearest me, who by virtue of having spoken seems to be their leader, I demand to know who they are, and what they're doing here. It's weird... they actually feel foreign to me, not like from another country, but like invaders.

The men begin to move away from each other, spreading out to form kind of a half-circle in front of me, all giving me cautious looks. The 'leader' says my mother's name like it's a question. He's half-crouched, like he's going to pounce on me any second, but he still looks confused and very nervous. Chills go down my spine, followed by anger rising in my chest. These guys are looking for my Mom.

"Who wants to know?" I ask, digging my bare feet into the sand and drawing energy for a fight.

I can hear the guys muttering to each other behind their leader. They seem like they're coming to a consensus that I'm guarding Mom, and they have to defeat me to get to her. This idea is reinforced by their having seen a different landscape prior to finding my beach, and having experienced some kind of explosive attack that they believe blasted them into this place. Trying to regain control, their leader steps toward me, telling me it doesn't matter. I'm not who they're looking for, but I'm in their way. He says, "We won't hurt you if you just let us out of here. We're just passing through."

I can feel the guy's energy moving, searching for an opening that will take him where he wants to go. When he realizes the opening is me, his eyes narrow, and he tells the others, "Looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way."

Suddenly, every single one of them is holding something nasty. One has a machete, another a baseball bat with nails pounded through it. I see a straight razor for shaving, several knives, a small axe, a metal pipe, and a pair of brass knuckles. The entire crowd begins advancing on me at once, the majority of them circling around to attack from the sides and behind me.

I ignore the sight of them, feeling outward around me for energy that signifies their individual presences, waiting until they're all about ten feet away from me and ready to jump. As soon as the energy around me tenses like they're about to spring, I raise a spiked, energized shield around me and shove it out to a radius of about six feet. Every single one of the guys slams into it, getting impaled, shocked, and thrown into the air around me. Most of them go flying back into the sand. Seven land in the water. Three of them are out at least forty yards. As soon as they splash down, the dorsal fins poke up and start heading their way.

The three begin to swim, desperately trying to get away from whatever is underneath those fins, one guy lagging behind the others as his heavy workboots and the metal pipe he won't drop slow him down. Their comrades watch from the beach, shouting at them to hurry as the sharks close the distance. I can hear one voice nearby bellowing, "Drop the pipe! Drop the pipe and swim, you dumbass!" It doesn't look like the guy in the water can hear him.

The sharks forget about the other two, changing their angle to surround the slowpoke. Seeing the dorsals in front of him, he stops swimming and begins treading water, gripping the pipe in his hand, ready to swing, not realizing that fighting in water isn't going to be the same as fighting on land.

His comrades watch, sickened and dismayed, as he is ripped apart by the sharks, his ragged and gurgling screams echoing across the beach like the soundtrack of a horror movie until one of the sharks bites through his chest and silences him. I look at the leader of my remaining assailants. "Go home," I growl.

The leader barks obscenities at me, and starts to get bigger. Looking around, I can see that all of them are changing, becoming larger and darker, less human looking. Their faces, arms, and legs are a little too long. Red eyes flash from beneath heavy brows, looming at me over wide mouths full of sharp, pointed teeth. The feeling of opening a curtain tells me that their earlier appearance was a disguise they had ready for whatever nightmare they had prepared for my mother, and they've just figured out that it isn't going to work on me.

The weapons are gone, replaced by bare hands and close-fitting leather that looks like it might be some kind of armor, though I'm not sure. Growling, the monsters close in on me again, careful to stay far enough outside the radius of my shield to avoid another hit, but close enough for me to see they still mean business.

From behind me, the force of someone's energy strikes my shield. Nothing compared to the power of the last opponent I fought here, it ricochets off and spins away harmlessly over the water. Feeling out from the place where it hit, I realize that the sender has left a trail back to himself. Without turning around, I focus on the spot where he stands, and send a jolt back along that path. I feel it hit home, throwing him sideways, so that two of his comrades have to dive into the sand to avoid being hit by his flying body. The leader sneers at me. I sneer back, and take a step forward, bringing my shield with me.

When I move, I see the ones in front of me, and feel the others around me, all flinch away. Feeling confident, I stir up the weather a little more, raising my arm and waving it over my head for effect as lightning flashes across the sky. The tall, thin leader, now much closer to me than the rest of his men, looks up, then looks back at me, determination eclipsing the fear on his face. I understand his position. He is the only thing right now keeping his men from breaking and running in a panic, now that they have realized they aren't dealing with an uninitiated dreamer, but a fighter who has learned to manipulate and use the elements of the dream. He has to show that he is strong, or he'll lose them all.

Outside my shield, I feel his energy building up around him, dark, dank, and foul. It's like sensing an influx of raw sewage gathering on my beach. Disgusted, I push against it, feeling polluted and cruddy. As soon as I touch that filth, I feel my opponent twist it and shove, impacting against my shield in just one tiny little spot with the force of all of his power, making a sound like a knife hitting glass.

The spike continues to pound, tapping rapidly against the surface, moving and down in an arc along the curve of my shield, as I try to get a grip on it. Slippery and revolting, it evades my grasp, and suddenly there is a loud pinging noise as it hits the same spot over and over until a crack formed.

Annoyed, I slam a wave against the spike from the side, shoving it away from my shield. The force of the boss's attack sends his energy into one of his own guys, right through the chest. The impaled monster falls to the sand, dark blood pouring from the wound, body thrashing.

I decide I'm not putting up with this any more. These wimps were going to attack my mother, meaning to scare the crap out of her and maybe even do real harm, and I can feel that if I don't take enough action, there will be more attacks, and more monsters. They will never leave her alone.

Reaching up into the storm again, I pull down bolt after bolt of lightning, striking the remaining grunts down. I feel like I'm playing whack-a-boogie-man with them as they break and run, scrambling over the beach like cockroaches fleeing the light, until all that is left is the leader. Advancing on him, I drop my shield. It's not really needed against such a lowlife piece of scum.

Horrified, the leader backs away from me. I raise the sand behind him, and he trips, falling onto it as I continue to shape it into shackles around his ankles, arms, forehead, and throat. He now looks like he's sitting in a sand version of an electric chair. Desperate and trapped, he lashes out, his nasty energy shooting out at me over and over again. Each time, I feel it coming and slap it away with little effort.

Stepping forward, I get right in the trapped monster's face, my nose inches away from his, and call all of the energy I've drawn into my aura so that he can see it. I can feel the storm flashing in my eyes, and he shrinks back in his makeshift seat. Not satisfied, I draw lightning across above the clouds where it won't be seen, letting thunder roll in, build up, and crash over our heads. A whine escapes him, and suddenly the smell of ammonia and minerals is floating on the wind in front of me.

I poke a finger into his pale, gaunt chest, punctuating a word with each impact, backing the statement up with more thunder behind me, building the volume of my voice as I go.

"Don't.
Fuck.
With.
Me."

The last  word comes out as a roar, right in his face, complete with a blast of hot wind. The monster closes his eyes, crumpling in terror, hands balled into fists. It's all he can do to shut me out. He can't turn away. I've got him pinned in that seat.

Seeing my enemy cringing in front of me, wetness spreading across his lap and the sand beneath him, I feel like a total louse. I'm bulling something that's far beneath me, driving home a point that was likely made before he even attacked my shield; that he'd messed with the wrong person. If this had just been an ordinary nightmare with an ordinary boogie-man attack, I'd have wiped them all out and left it at that. But it isn't. They started out thinking they were here to attack my mother, and I have to make sure that never happens again.

Standing up, I poke my finger at the monster's body one more time, in the fleshy area between the collar bone and the neck, where I can almost see a major vein flowing beneath the skin. Using energy, I burn my initials into his sallow hide, red welts rising in stark contrast to the nearly gray flesh. The monster screams and writhes in pain at the first touch. Feeling sorry, I put my other hand on his throat and block the sensation with more energy until I am done, then heal the burn into deep, dark scars. Feeling the numbness, he opens his eyes and stares in confusion as I finish branding him.

Getting down to his level again, I scoop up some sand and melt it to produce a mirror so that he can see the marks. "You know what this means?" I ask him. Understanding flashes across his face, and then resignation. What is he going to do, argue with me? He has no choice but to accept the situation and be glad I didn't just kill him outright. My stomach turns, cold rising in me as my spirit objects. This isn't my way. I don't want to do this. I hate doing this... but I know that if I don't, there will be more of them, and I will not let them come after my mother again.

"You now belong to me," I tell him roughly. "You're my property, subject to my will and my whim. Get up." I dissolve the chair and the bonds, so that the monster must either stand, or fall on the beach. Even slouching in defeat, he towers over me, standing on trembling legs rather than let me see him fall. Misery and fear in his eyes, he waits to hear the rest of his fate. I steel myself against my aversion to what I know has to be done, then I continue to explain.

"You are now my mother's guardian. Stay just near enough to know if anyone else like you approaches. Don't try to interact with her at all. Just protect her. Nothing harmful gets to her, ever, without killing you first, understand? You can use every ounce of your power to fight and defend yourself against attackers, but only in the course of protecting her. You will warn anyone who runs away that if they come back, they'll end up like you. You will destroy anyone who doesn't run. And..." I let my voice become more harsh and ragged as I speak. "...if you ever even think about trying to harm her, or anyone else I love..." Here, I send a fiery spike of energy down through the brand on his shoulder into his bowels, knocking him screaming to his knees, doubled over at the gut, head thrown back in anguish.

The sight and sound tears at my heart. Immediately, I stop, putting a hand on his bony shoulder to stabilize his weight, once again healing the damage done by the energy. Relief shapes his features now. "I'll know, and I'll come for you," I finish, disgust with myself and my actions cramping my gut, making my words sound all the more vicious and cruel. "I'll make you wish you never existed."

The monster's mental state breaks entirely. He reaches out and grabs my clothing, pressing his forehead against my chest and babbling, promising me his loyalty and obedience, but then begging me to either kill him or go away. Pangs of guilt and shame stab through me at the sight and sound of what I've done to him, anger trying to follow them in as my mental defenses try to blame him for my terrible actions.

I can't do this. I'm not domineering. I don't even like to fight. I was just trying to protect my family. Fighting tears, I close my hands over his long, twisted fingers and shush him, telling him it's all right now. The fight is over, and I'm not going to hurt him any more, just as long as he doesn't try anything dumb.

"Yes, Mistress," the monster begins, the name punching me right in the chest, bringing those tears even closer to the surface.

"Ma'am," I quietly correct him. I'm no one's mistress, even if I have forced him into servitude. I can't take that title. It'll kill me. "Ma'am will do. Don't call me anything else. Now, do you have any other injuries?" Without waiting for an answer, I start looking him over, feeling for anything that is not as it should be, ignoring the return of that look of confusion on his face as I work on the places where my spikes went through in the initial assault.

"Why?" he asks, the confusion deepening, edged with faint hope that I can see him trying to quash. I want to tell him not to give that up, but I don't know enough about this guy to have that much trust. Instead, I lie, pushing back my own moral objection to hurting him in favor of the impulse to protect my family.

"You're not any good to her damaged like this." But I can see the wheels turning. The hope goes back under the surface, but it's still there. I'm going to have to keep consistent watch on him, using the brand like a mark, or he'll turn on me. Uneasiness settles in as I go over every hurt, using the same power that defeated and dominated him to heal my new slave. No... servant. Just a servant, a prisoner of war, paying for his crime. I'm not an enslaver. I'm not!

God, what have I done?

Into the light

Inside of my heart is a tiny, bright little light. It's mine, and it's like a nightlight. I can feel the warmth of it, constructed of the right that is in me, my love for my family, my identity, my conscience. It is reminding me what I need to do. I reach in, and focus on it, holding on tightly.

My head hurts again, but it's not bad. I've felt much, much worse before. This is only a minor thing. I am not going to let it distract me.

I pull the light, stretching it over my whole heart, filling it with what is only me, and my will. I feel warm. I keep stretching and pulling, careful to keep the light close to, but under, the skin on the front. It has to be done just right, or this will be noticed. I stretch it over my ribs, grow it across my belly and my shoulders, down my arms and legs, through my throat and over my face, down into my hands and feet. It's like there's a blanket of light under my skin, warming my body.

Once the light has filled every inch, I begin to expand it down toward my back, letting it push out everything that is not me, not my will. The cold, dank, darkness begins to sink through my body, until I feel it pushing against the skin of my back, all except for in my head. There, I find a marker that must be left for now, or he'll know what I'm doing. I surround the marker with my light, isolate it, and harden the light into a solid covering, so that the marker is in place, but it is not touching me. It will remain, but it cannot poison me.

I push the light out through my back, feeling the nasty, clammy darkness oozing out before it like pus. I focus on rejecting that energy, pushing it down into the mat where it won't be seen. It's not mine. I don't want it. Go away!

Relief floods me as the last drop is pushed out, leaving me no longer longer feeling contaminated, no longer compromised. But now, I'm really, really tired again.

I could open my eyes, try to talk, but instead, I find myself drifting, and then there is nothing.

I had little fragments of dreams throughout the rest of the night, nothing I can really place today. It was like I was drifting in an out from the snippet dreams, into and out of one main dream about resting on a bed made with a hard mat, and a pillow of leaves. The whole time, I felt watched, the way my mother used to watch me when I was sick as a kid with really bad asthma, or the time I got bit by a mosquito and almost died of Encephalitis. I felt kind of tended to, for lack of a better term.

This morning, I feel more rested than yesterday, like I got about half a night's sleep... but now I'm definitely sure that I'm fighting a cold... probably a sinus infection. My son is sick, too, so we're headed off to get checked out. I swear, I have never produced this much snot in my entire life!


The word of the day is: Blaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!

Slight stinging sensation

There doesn't seem to be anything to hold the street together any more. It seemed so solid that I'm surprised to see it disintegrate like this. First, the buildings crumble, then the smaller structures, the lamp posts and traffic light, the cement trash cans, and the fence around the parking lot. The sidewalk turns to dust, and the street melts into the ground.

I'm left in a dry, dusty open area with huge rocks, giant plants that are like brown cacti without so many spikes, and a dry river bed. On closer inspection, it looks like these plants are dead, and possibly petrified. This whole area seems totally barren. Nothing here is green.

I put my hand on one of the rocks. It's extremely warm. The ground is warm, too. It's daylight, but nowhere in the sky do I see the sun. I am not surprised. There is no place like this in Ohio. I'm still feeling horribly angry, but I'm also wary. This place is unfamiliar, and I don't know if anything else is here.

As I step around a boulder that used to be part of the parking garage, looking toward the area from which I saw them disappear, I hear a noise behind me. Before I can turn, I feel something impact against the back of my armor & shield, and I'm thrown forward. I curl up and roll onto my side to see that the impact came from the stinger of a huge wasp that is close to half my size.

There are scorch marks around the base of a stinger as long as my arm, where energy discharged from my shield seems to have burned the wasp. It rises in to the air and circles around, then hovers over me. The stinger appears to be poised for use, but the wasp appears to be hesitant to approach. It buzzes angrily, as I stand up and look at it. I'm waiting to see what it's going to do, but I'm also pulling energy from around me. The spikes in the outer shield stand out, arcs of energy crackling between the points. I feel like an electric porcupine, but at least the bug can't touch me without getting hurt.

Slowly, the shape of the wasp changes, slimming down, wings shrinking, head shrinking, front legs becoming arms. As it sinks toward the dirt, the face begins to look vaguely human. He stands on 4 legs, the stinger still sticking out behind him, staring at me with those injured-looking eyes. I stare back at him. I hear a low growl, and then he's moving forward again. He gets just a few inches away from the ends of the spikes in my shield, and stops. He looks furious.

He kind of belches, then vomits a viscous, black ooze over me. It doesn't touch my body, hovering on the edges of the spikes instead. I feel pressure, like fingers are pushing on my skin. The ooze slides down to the ground, and soaks into the cracked dirt beneath my feet. The attack was totally ineffective. I'm feeling simultaneously triumphant at having had no problem resisting his effort, and confused as to what he was trying to do.

Suddenly, the ground beneath me jerks upward hard and fast, knocking me off balance. As I struggle to right myself, it lurches side to side, up and down, tossing me around like a rag doll. I'm thrown to the ground, and can't do anything about how I fall. I feel my head hit a rock when I land, and for a second, I'm completely stunned.

I find myself on my back, with him on top of me, using his six limbs to pin me to the ground. His little tiny mouth opens, and keeps opening, until his jaw has stretched wide, and his chin is down by his chest. At the same time, he motions that stinger forward toward my gut. He bites down on my shoulder and thrusts the stinger in, only to shriek in pain and leap away from me.

The shield wasn't gone. It looked like it was gone, but it was still there. It was just flattened up against my body during the moment when my focus was dimmed. Now, the stinger seems bent at an awkward angle. I'm guessing that it's broken.

I take a few steps toward him, still crackling with energy. I haven't actually done anything yet, and he's all ready battered, bruised, and burned. He backs away from me and belches more goo on the ground.


This time, I jump into the air and try to hover. It takes concentration away from my shield. The spikes don't shrink, but they sag a little. Trying to distract him, I throw an energy ball, but the expression on his face changes.


I can see from my vantage point that the earthquake isn't very big. It only affects a circle about 15 or 20 yards across, the edge of which doesn't reach where he's standing. He wasn't shaking the ground under his feet, only under mine. I decide to try something new.

Staring at him, I mentally focus my energy behind him, moving toward him from back there. I pull at the energy that is in that area, and then push it toward him with as much willpower as I can muster. The effect is a strong gust of wind hitting him from behind. He keeps his footing, but his upper body falls forward, and his face slams into the ground. The wind breaks up before it gets to me.

He quickly rights himself, giving me a livid, hateful glare. His nose is bleeding heavily. He bellows at me and dissolves into a pulsating swarm of normal sized black wasps. The swarm expands, spreading out to surround me, and then they all dive in at once, bombarding me with vicious little attacks, hitting so hard that the impact of each one against my shield sounds like raindrops hitting a window. The horror of being overcome by a swarm of angry, stinging wasps is too much, and I find myself falling to the ground, trying to cover my head with my hands, even though not one sting makes it through the shield. I try to concentrate on adding energy to zap them, but it just won't move for me.

At this point, I'm thrown into a totally different experience. I'm about four years old, swinging on U-shaped  metal bar set into the end of one of those A-framed, back yard swing sets, at my parents' house. I can see them standing nearby, chatting with someone. I'm watching an odd little bug that is hovering in front of my knee. It's long and skinny, a little over an inch, shaped kind of like an ant, but with wings, and a more pointy butt. As I keep swinging, my knee is getting closer and closer to that bug. I think I want it to land on me.

Suddenly, I feel burning pain in my bare arms and legs as hundreds of them attack and begin stinging me. I hear my mother shriek at my father, and the two of them grab me, fighting off the bugs, and run toward the house.

The pain is really intense, and it draws me back to the fight. I don't know if I've dropped my shield because of the panic attack, or if they've broken through, but the stinging continues. The natural response of thrashing around kicks up a cloud of dirt, knocking many of the wasps away from me. I find more loose dirt and throw it into the air, hoping to make flight more difficult. I desperately reach for the nearest energy and focus on rebuilding my shield, but I'm afraid I'll trap some of them inside of it.

I take the energy into myself and then try to push it out in all directions in a totally unfocused blast, hoping to turn myself into a human bug-zapper. Instead, it comes out at first like sweat, creating a wet layer on top of my skin. Working with what I have, I harden that. The stinging stops. I put my back to a big rock and try to force myself to focus, despite having a case of the creepy-crawly-heebie-jeebies over all of these wasps. I can still feel them crawling all over the outside of that thin shell.

I close my eyes and picture just the rock that is behind me, how still and hard and solid it is. I find its energy and begin to draw on that. As I do, I can feel the shield getting thicker, until I can no longer feel the tickle of little bug feet on my skin. I'm about to work on the spikes, when I realize I can't hear the bugs any more, either. I open my eyes.

He's just a few inches away from my face, staring at me intently, like he's studying me or something. There is blood encrusted on his lips from his nose. He doesn't look angry any more. His expression is really hard to read. For a moment, I forget attacking, and just stare back at him, trying to analyze his face. I settle on possible curiosity. It's hard to tell.

"Doesn't that hurt?" He glances down at my red, bumpy, wasp-stung arms.

The question pisses me off. Of course it hurts! I'm sure he's aware of that. Why the hell is he asking me?

I throw back at him, "How about your nose?"

He says, "It's broken." His tone of voice sounds totally unconcerned. He might as well have shrugged his shoulders, and added "Meh..." to the statement.
He doesn't look extremely bothered by the pain, not like I am, but it occurs to me that if I'm able to hide that about myself, he probably can, too.

He reaches one hand out toward me, and I zap him. He jerks his hand back, sticks his finger in his mouth, and looks annoyed. I cross my arms. I'm a little stunned to see such a human gesture from him. I feel like a stubborn little kid standing up to a big bully. I set my jaw and draw more energy from the rock behind me.

He stands up, turns around, and walks several feet away from me, turns back, and shoves both hands toward me like we're in a pool, and he's trying to splash me. I don't see anything coming my way, but I feel something wash over me with incredible force. Everything I can see, except him, seems to be breaking apart and melting.

The next thing I know, I'm laying on the couch in my living room. It's dark, and I don't know what time it is. I'm not sure what that was about, but when it happened, I instantly woke up. I have the feeling I was shoved out of the dream state.


I called and talked to my mother about the part of the dream involving the swarm of wasps and the swing set. She said she was surprised I still remember that. I was only 4 when it happened, so it's been over 35 years. I told her I didn't remember, I dreamed it, and it seemed really real. According to my mom, there was a nest in the swing set. Each time I swung that U-shaped bar back and forth, it ground against the top bar, vibrating the nest. No one saw the wasps until they found me and attacked. 


No wonder they creep me out so much!

Camouflage

Once again, I have to fight through my own mind to get to the asylum. Prior to that, I'm twelve years old, sitting at a desk in a classroom, working on an in-class assignment that of all things involves counting, organizing, and cleaning a box full of my own shoes. At first, I totally lose myself in the assignment, performing the requirements to the exact specifications given on the instruction sheet. I'm doing this, and thinking about how, when I was a little girl, I used to gather everyone's shoes in the house and clean and polish them when I was stressed. I've never understood why that makes me feel better. It just does.

Suddenly, I realize I'm a little girl, thinking about when I was a little girl. This is a distraction. I need to talk to the "doctor." I'm probably using this to keep from confronting things I'm afraid to see.

As the thought occurs to me, the shoes begin to fade away. The desk I'm in becomes softer, and then the top of it disappears. I'm sitting in that chair in the room I'm staying in at the asylum. He's sitting across from me, and seems to be studying my face. He looks doubtful and a little worried. I feel like he doesn't think I can handle this. I don't feel like I can, either, but I know that if I don't, bad things are going to happen.

The wedding album sits on the table. Other books are there, but I don't think they'll work the way it did. At least, I hope not. There is still a deep, throbbing ache in my chest from learning from that book.

He tells me I should not try to do this so quickly, that I should rest a little. The petite lady/nurse comes around from behind me and brings me a huge cappuccino mug. It smells like there's hot chocolate in it, and when I look, I see marshmallows floating on top. I'm grateful for the concern, but I feel so impatient, and I'm overwhelmingly annoyed at the suggestion of a delay. Yes, it hurts... a lot, actually... but being kept in the dark drives me nuts. Also, it hurts to not know why, after clinging so hard, and trying so hard to not let go, she would turn against me like this.

I tell him I have to know at least that - why is she working with him? I want to know what he's trying to do, what he wants, and what he is, too, but right now I need to know why she is cooperating with him. Why, after working so hard to protect me, would she try to make me vulnerable to someone so obviously harmful and evil? Somehow, thinking about that hurts more than the memories brought back by the book.

He looks like he's trying to figure out what to say. He looks exasperated, too. Three times, he opens his mouth and shuts it again. Finally, he says, "You have to understand, she doesn't see what you do. She sees only what he presents to her, and she knows only what he feeds her."


I don't understand. Is the doc telling me that she could be so easily conned? I can't believe that. My confusion must show on my face, because he shakes his head. "It's not a simple thing. He's using her pain, twisting her emotions. He's not like a whole being - it's like he's made of lies and deception. He doesn't just hide the truth. He banishes it. If he can, he destroys it."

I have an overwhelming sense of deja vu right now. Huge. It feels like I'm being pulled at by that sense. I feel dizzy, and for a moment I close my eyes. When I open them, I'm in the meeting hall where the men dragged in the corpse of the monster.

There are thirteen of us here. We're arguing about what to do. My lady looks horrified, but determined. I feel the same way. We had them beaten, pushed back to where they had broken through, until it came along. It seems to have rallied them, and organized them into something we aren't equipped to confront. We've never seen anything like it, this towering, heaving mass of darkness. I am of the opinion that there's someone inside the dark, hidden, and that is our enemy. One of my allies, traveled here from the outside, thinks otherwise. What he's just told us is creepy. How do you destroy truth? What is left behind when you do? Is that how those monsters were formed?

No, my ally explains. They were what they are before it came along. They're pretty simple, by comparison. They are just hungry. The thing that is darkness is hungry, too, but what it "eats" isn't physical, and it has to poison everything first, for compatibility. If it succeeds, we won't recognize anything around ourselves any more - not even each other, and then he'll keep going. At the edge of my mind, I feel myself thinking about a hidden place, and a people in their infancy as a race. They don't understand. They wouldn't stand a chance. The discussion takes a turn; we are talking about accepting a quarantine. It seems that we have no choice.

I feel the weight of what he's saying slam into me, and it jolts me back to the moment, sitting in that chair at the asylum, looking at him as the doc, thinking about "what he's feeding her." My mind races.

I didn't come back to her, no matter how hard she tried. I didn't even say goodbye. He's made of lies and deception. He has to poison everything. He wants to get through the door. I'm the door.

I feel freezing cold. My whole body shivers. Goose bumps rise on every inch of my skin. Without thinking about it, I sink back into the chair, draw my knees up to my chest, and sip the cocoa, trying to feel warm.

The doc looks worried. "Do you understand? She doesn't know you've changed. She thinks you left. He latched on when she tried to bring you back, and no one knew it had happened until too late. He's been inside the whole time. She doesn't see what he is. She sees something else. She doesn't see how things are. She sees things as being how he can use them to make her do what he wants. She thinks you've let yourself be fooled into some kind of dark allegiance, and abandoned her. He's pulled her pain into anger at you for leaving. He's twisting everything she remembers, everything she feels. He's filling her with resentment and bitterness, poisoning her, so he can use her to get through your defenses. He has made her think that if she wears you down, she can save you from the enemy he's convinced her that we are, and make you return to her. He's using her to try to open you up, and he's making her into an entirely different person than she was. When he gets what he wants, he'll consume her, and discard the empty shell that will be left behind. And he's going to keep poisoning her and twisting who she is, until either you break the connection you made with her, or she breaks you open."

A fiery, liquid rage rises in my chest, and I'm not cold any more. I can feel heat in my face. There's a pounding in my head. Even my eyes feel hot. I want to break things. I want to burn things. I feel my grip tightening on the mug. I'm shaking even harder than before. I can hear someone growling, and for a moment I think they're here, but then I realize it's my voice. I'm going out there right now. I'm going to kill him.

I stand up, and a wave of dizziness hits me. I ignore it. I've got to get out that door. I start stumbling forward. There's a blackness around the edges of my vision. I feel like I'm on fire.

I feel a sharp sting in my left arm. The nurse is standing beside me, eyes wide, brow creased with worry. In her hand, I see a syringe and a hypodermic needle. I look behind me, shocked and angry. What the hell is she doing? I have to get out there. I'm going to burn everything.

My head is heavy. The doc has gotten up from his chair, and is running toward me. He hooks one shoulder under my right arm, and I feel the nurse slide under the other one. I try to push them away, but my limbs won't obey me. They feel like rubber. The cup with the hot chocolate falls from my fingers, but instead of crashing to the floor, it disappears. It feels like I'm falling, too, but I'm not. They're supporting me, guiding me back to the couch. I feel totally impotent, and completely desperate. I have to get my lady away from that thing.

The doc tells me, "Please, don't panic. Don't be angry. He won't do anything while you're here. You will get your chance at him, but you have to heal first. Don't rush in and throw everything away." The last thing I can understand sounds weird, like there's an echo. He keeps talking after that, but it sounds like I'm hearing him through a heavy blanket. I feel the soft cushions of the couch under me. I feel like I'm underwater, struggling to reach the top, except that I can breathe.

It's dark, and I don't feel anything.

When my husband woke me this morning, I had the sense that it had been hours since I lost consciousness. The anger momentarily returned, and I had to fight with it because I didn't want to lash out. I'm still tired. My neighbors were setting off fireworks and shooting guns in the air last night. I have only had a few hours of sleep, not long enough to have experienced the dream I had.

This is starting to fall into the category I think of as serial dreams. I've had them before. I thought that was something I was done with, because it's been a few years. I'm going to have to dig out my old journals and start going through them. There are some similarities here, things I remember. I'm sure that if I read the older entries, I'll find more. 

A couple of weeks ago, I started working on a story based on one series of dreams I had as a teen. It involved different dimensions, and powers that would seem magical in reality, but weren't. I wonder if revisiting those dreams is part of the reason this is happening to me now. It feels like I'm working through something huge that runs really deep. 
I don't know, though. Maybe I'm just nuts.

Him again

I'm walking along the side of a lake that is bordered by a lot of big rocks. There isn't exactly a path, just an area that is kind of more flat than the rest, made by smaller rocks and stones. There are also trees and bushes around me, and I can't see very far ahead, but I can hear the repeated sound of something patting against the water.

The foliage starts to thin out as I continue moving forward. I can see a guy up ahead skipping stones along the water. Something about him makes me mildly uneasy, like I'm hanging out with people who are going to get caught doing something unacceptable, and I'm going to be implicated by association. I seriously consider going back the way I came, just to avoid him.

Before I get the chance, he speaks up with my voice, sounding simultaneously petulant and reproachful: "Don't bother, stupid. You can't get away from me."
He flings another stone across the water. This one really goes, traveling quite far and getting several hits before sinking. It moves so fast leaving his hand that it makes a whistling noise.

For a moment, I feel scared because of what he said, but I don't get the feeling that this guy is going to physically harm me. I can tell that he is angry, but he's not acting aggressive. He's sulking. He's also right, I realize. I can't avoid him. If I walk back the way I came, he'll just be somewhere along that path, too.

As I approach more closely, I can see who he is. I've met him before. He's me, but he's not me. I used to try to keep him on a leash, but now I can't do that without destroying part of myself. I was right about my uneasy feeling. This guy gets me into trouble all the time.

I am just a few feet away from him. Now that I know who I'm dealing with, I know I need to get him to talk about what is bothering him. I start to ask, and he cuts me off with "Why are you asking questions without wanting answers?"

He turns and walks away from me. I chase after him, and he runs. The chase takes us into a little brick building. From the outside, it looks unimposing, like maybe a little storage building. Inside, it's quite large and ornate. I can't help but stop to look around. When I do, I realize I'm in the lobby of a courthouse.

He enters a room at the other end of the lobby. I follow. Inside, there is a hearing going on. The judge is me, in a powdered wig, with half-sized bifocals , a robe, and a sledgehammer as a gavel. The prosecutor is also me, in a pantsuit, with a briefcase, rectangular glasses, and a really severe looking bun in my hair. The defense attorney is me with wispy curls, a whimsical tie-dyed hippie dress, and huge, bookworm glasses. There is a "me" baliff, too, a six-foot amazonian thug with short hair, bulging muscles, and no glasses, dressed in a uniform and standing with crossed arms glaring down at the defendant, my boss. There are several versions of me sitting where a jury should be. Most of them don't stand out, but one is dressed in my work uniform, and another is completely naked, though no one seems to notice.

The judge looks up and says, "Is this the witness?" The male me says "Yes, I brought her."

Suddenly I'm on the witness stand. I can see the seats behind the participants, where my family and some of my friends are sitting. The prosecutor gets up and asks me questions about things my boss has done to me and how they have affected my family. As I talk about my experiences with her all in one sitting, I begin to understand why the male me is so upset. The jury is glaring hatefully at the defendant by the time the prosecutor says there are no more questions.

I'm sitting in the audience with my family. The judge is talking, but the boss is turned around and glaring at me. She keeps throwing little things at me, and missing. When one lands close, I realize what she is throwing is little round turds. She is laughing, even though she looks angry. When the turds don't hit me, she pulls a bunch of little knives out of her purse and starts throwing those. They are hitting my family.

I yell for the bailiff, but before she can get there, the male me jumps between my family and my boss. He has a huge club, and begins pounding her while I move my family away out of her reach. He is shouting obscenities as he strikes again and again with the club. She stabs him in the ribs with one of the little knives, but it's tiny and barely does any damage. His club, on the other hand, is leaving huge bruises and even broken bones.

I send my family into another room where they will be safe, and shout for the bailiff to stop the beating. The bailiff rushes over and grabs the male me, pulling him back just as he swings the club at my boss's head. The club grazes the top of her head, and there is blood, but she will survive. Behind her on the desk is one of the cash registers from work. I realize that in the process of beating her, he has smashed it, too.

He looks at me and says, "Really? You're defending her after all she's done?" and then we are back at the lake, and he's skipping stones across the water again. I see several of my co-workers swimming near the edge of the water, and they don't look happy. One of them tells me that they have to just keep swimming here because there is no place else to go.

A shark fin appears behind them, and I tell them to climb out of the water. They look at me sadly, and I realize they can't get out. The shark swims closer, and my male self starts skipping stones at it. It shies away from those, but it is still circling the swimmers. I can see parts of bodies floating in the water, and I realize these are her previous victims.

On the ground beside my male self, I see what looks like a cannon with a harpoon sticking out of it. I tell him to use that on the shark. He gives me a sharp look, and very quickly says, "I have your permission?"

Employees are friends, not food!

Somehow, I feel like I'm giving him permission to do something much bigger and more complex than this, but if I don't give it, that shark is going to eat the swimmers. I realize that there are versions of me in there, and worse, members of my family as well. Frightened, I tell him, "Yes, do whatever you have to do! Just stop that shark!"

He drops the hand full of little flat stones and grabs the cannon, turning it to aim at the shark. He fires it, and makes a direct hit. The water around the fin darkens with blood. Grabbing the attached rope, he hauls the shark over to where he is standing, then pulls it up out of the water onto the ground. I move closer so I can see it, even though I am terrified of sharks. I see the tail, the back, and the big fin on the top, but above the fin is a manager's uniform shirt from my workplace. Above that, a warped version of my boss's face stares at me. It has human eyes, but a shark's mouth, complete with teeth. The mouth is opening and closing as if she's still trying to bite, but she can't move from the spot where she is, so I am safe. There is a huge gash along the side of the shark body, and the rocks are covered with blood. Down the way from us, the rock border around the lake turns into a beach. One by one, the people in the water pull themselves out onto the shore, including the versions of me, who work together to pull my family out of the water.

The male me looks at her, then at me. I realize that if I don't let it happen this way, she's going to just keep eating people. I have to let him do what he thinks will be most effective, even if I am going to feel bad about how it turns out for her.