Dream Journal 1: Crazy Girl
So I decided to keep a dream journal, because I have been having these really vivid dreams of late. That’s nothing unusual for me, they come and go, though lately I have been having quite a few. Almost on a daily basis.
Dreams can be amazing inspiration, especially when you write horror and have, what most “normal” people would consider, fucked up visions. I’ve certainly used them before to write stories.
Some of the most interesting dreams I have ever had have been lucid dreams. Like this one time, I was surrounded by zombies, realised it was a dream, and suddenly willed a katana in my hand and mad anime/kung-fu movie style sword prowess and semi-flight to go with it. So yeah, advantage me.
But I kind of consider them cheating because you’re like Neo in the Matrix to a degree. Especially when it comes to actually exploring your inner thoughts and psyche and when it comes to story, narrative and character ideas. Of course, given the type of dream this can be rather advantageous. Nudge nudge, wink wink.
But let’s leave the number of times I’ve summoned the TARDIS to one side for the moment… Uhh, yeah, what did you think I was talking about?
You have to also be careful of course. Pop culture and literary creep in can be unavoidable, so taking a dream verbatim without any analysis and vomiting into your word processor of choice would be akin to sticking your fingers in your throat and hurling into your NutriBullet and giving it a whiz. Sure, it will look kinda cool as it’s all rushing past, but when you’re done and you pour/pore it’s still gonna be fetid puke. Yes, even if you drop a stick of celery in it. In fact, that just makes it all the more disgusting. You should be ashamed. But moving on.
So, with To the Bone, the aforementioned linked story, I changed a lot. When I’d actually had the dream I was a kid, and I was also in the dream as a kid. I woke up with measles or something, but it was a hell of a cool dream. I’ve always been fascinated by dreams and rarely find them frightening. So when I had this particular dream the other night I decided, OK, I gotta start writing this shit down. Then I thought, hell, why not share it? People can only think you’re so messed up. Right?
So basically, I will write the dreams down as they come to me, so first person or third depending on how it plays out. Some dreams I will shift from one POV to another, other times even different people, but I’ll blow up those bridges when I come to them. I always dream in colour, so, you’re welcome, you don’t have to read in black and white. And I do not, nor never have, owned the car featured in the dream. Nor do I keep my car in a similar state as in the dream.
The title of this one is Crazy Girl, and you’ll see why.
I can’t think of anything else to say to preface this one but, enjoy, and if you psychoanalyse me, drop me a line as long as I’m not paying.
I walk to my car, a beat up old Ford Falcon. The paint is matte blue and patchy. The windows are scratched up. There’s a pile of stuff to the left of it, most of it black. To the right, another car is parked with the bonnet up and a dodgy looking dude with long hair and a beany walking back and forth looking at his phone. A cigarette hangs limply from his mouth.
I stop when he looks up at me with a suspicious glare. “You need some help, buddy?” I ask him.
“Naw,” he mumbles. Then, himself suspicious, adds, “Why would you think I need help?”
I shrug. “I saw your car and thought, maybe you need a jump-start or somethin, I dunno.”
“S’all good. Thanks,” he says, and walks to the front of his car, out of sight.
I make my way to the pile of crap next to mine, see that it’s all my crap as I near it. Crap from within my car. “What the fuck?” I say out loud. The dude looks. “Don’t suppose you saw—” he shrugs, shaking his head, as if to say not to look at him.
Instead, I look at my car. More puzzling than my piled possessions is the fact that the back door has somehow been cut off half way up the window. The top portion of the door frame rests against the back wheel, the glass completely gone and nowhere in sight.
“What the fuck?” I ask myself this time.
I stick my head in the car and look around. Everything that I had inside it is gone. I check the pile. It all seems to be there. CD’s, laptop bag with laptop still in it, jacket and jumper and other clothes. All there. Even the rubbish that used to litter the floor. I glance in the car again, sticking most of my body in to check the glove box. Even the manuals are gone, presumably in the pile.
A sound of plastic on metal draws me back out. As I stand up straight I slow my motion from what I see. There’s a girl, possibly in her early twenties, walking around the back of my car and hitting it with something. Most of her hair is tied back, but bits to the sides and front hang free.
I say possibly in her twenties because her face is a mass of scars. She looks like Freddy Krugers attractive sister. Her skins not all melted or anything. It’s more like raised skin instead of burned, possibly scarified. It’s almost a pattern.
As she rounds the car, she grins this wide, crazy smile. She’s wearing this white body suit that has these squiggly patterns on it that seem to match her scars, part looking like crazy camo. On her feet she wears beige ugg boots that come half way up her calves. In her hand–just as scarred as her face so I presume she is that way all over–she holds this shiny, long spring, probably a half inch thick. On the end of it is a rubbery mannequin hand. She’s slapping it on the car as she walks oh so slowly toward me.
“Where is it?” she says, almost friendly.
“Huh?” I ask in confusion, then become angry. “Did you do this?” I say, pointing at my shit.
“Where is it?” she asks again, now not quite so chummy, slapping the car harder with her dummy hand.
“Who the fuck are you?” I say, getting angrier myself.
“Where. Is. It.” With each word she smacks the ever loving shit out of the car, and I can just see that she’s going to start on me next when she’s within arms reach.
“What the fuck’s going on over here?” the dude from the broken down car says, appearing behind psycho scar face.
She turns on him with a screaming growl and starts laying into him with the appendage. He’s yelling in anger before he falls to the ground and is whimpering. I take a faltering step forward, stopped by her turning back to me, a massive psycho smile painted on her face. Just like the blood that paints her face and now stains her one-piece body suit. She wipes her forehead with the back of the blood covered plastic limb, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
I start running like shit, and, laughing, she starts chasing.