Dream – May 5, 2013 – Bloody Night
I didn’t understand why I was held in the cell. But despite the fact that I had no cuts and nothing hurt, I knew that a giant, human-sized letter V was drawn on one of the walls with my blood. Fresh blood. I had to get out of there, though two guards in uniform were waiting for me in the “antechamber.” What to do?
It was like in a movie—I knew exactly what to do. It felt like I had already done it in another reality. Suddenly, I became two people. Who was I— the one walking ahead with strange steps, or the one walking behind, close to the first one, folding myself in half so I wouldn’t be seen, while dragging (slowly moving) with our human form a metal bucket, half-filled with fresh, still-warm blood?
I remembered the dream—it was her who entered and poured five liters of blood into the faces of the guards watching her, giving her time to grab a sword from somewhere and chop down the enemies. That was the plan. As if expecting this to happen, the Nazi uniformed guards seemed stunned when they saw us. They didn’t notice me, the one behind. They didn’t pay any attention to the scraping sound of the aluminum bucket across the concrete floor. An awkward pause followed. I jumped up, grabbed the bucket, and splashed blood onto one of them.
I was the first to shout, “What are you doing!”—and then I realized that something was probably wrong in this reality. While the first guard spat out the blood in shock, the second one, who only got splattered, immediately ran to grab a heavy 80 cm knife, clearly intending to chop me up with it. I noticed then that I was not two anymore, but again one, and I had to defend myself. Somehow, I managed to fold the knife in half—it turned out to be very flexible—and jam it into the throat of the attacker. Just then, the blood-drenched guard arrived, and I chopped him down with the sword.
I became two again (why does this remind me of Fight Club?), and we broke out of the room, making the seemingly seriously wounded but still alive guards (the wounds appeared fake) lie face down on the floor. We slipped through the door and ended up on the stairwell. According to the plan, the second me should have thrown the knife into the elevator shaft. But she hesitated, not believing she had to do that. Then, I did it.
We ran down. We flew over several steps, which again had bloodstains— as if a body had been dragged down them. On one of the landings stood the wife of one of the dead guards (the senior one), mourning her freshly killed husband—some bending of time-space? We kept running. When we reached the street, we realized we had to escape. A detective was already watching us.
We ended up in some store, resembling the old Moscow “Children’s World.” The second me became a big, burly man who suddenly said in English, “Let’s kill someone.” The idea appealed to me: “But who?” “Scooby-Doo!” replied the man-me, who immediately stopped being me, clearly becoming an independent person.
Continuing in English, I countered, “That’s a cartoon character! You can’t kill Scooby-Doo!” And then I realized he was talking about Scooby-Doo the mobster, who had killed my husband. That’s why the man suggested killing that Scooby-Doo. We immediately sat down at a café inside the store to discuss the murder plan. And then I saw him—the detective. He looked very much like one of the Turkish men with whom we had recently chatted in Turkish on a dating site (in real life). Dressed in a crisp white shirt, he walked between rows of low shelves. My partner, the burly man, pointed him out to me.
I realized the detective was looking for me. I said to the burly man, “Let’s move!” in Russian and, crouching, began darting from shelf to shelf toward the exit, using the shelves for cover. Once outside, I recognized that it was Profsoyuznaya Street near the “Profsoyuznaya” metro station in Moscow.
Spring. Slightly melting snow. I’m thinking about where I’d like to live. My mom (now deceased) is helping me. We’re deciding what to do. We’re talking on the phone with a realtor when my mom picks up a plastic packaging covered in snow from the ground. It has a promotion on the lid—collect the tops of these packages and get a prize. I distastefully snatch the trash from her hands and ask, “Are you still collecting tops?”
Then, my mom and I walk through snowy Moscow. She’s wearing tight jeans, and suddenly, she’s very slim, with gold high-heeled shoes.
And then, the dream ends. I wake up before the alarm, in shock from the amount of blood in the dream—something like that had never happened to me before. For a few minutes, I recover before finding the strength to get out of bed.
So, “nightmare” is not a metaphor. It was truly a nightmare.
Dream – May 13, 2013
My friend and I were heading somewhere. The only way to get there was by a railroad that moved on the ground in the right direction on its own—you just needed to position yourself correctly on the tracks, and it would take you there. But the problem was that for some reason, it often stopped, and when it brought us to one town, it stopped entirely. And then it even started moving in the opposite direction.
My friend said that now we had to go on foot ourselves—it was about two and a half hours of walking. I started packing a light backpack: a change of shoes and some spare socks, just in case. My friend had some odd slippers, and I offered her my soft leather huaraches. She tried them on and really liked them, but for some reason, she insisted that I wear them. I wanted to go in my sneakers.
At some point, I began to doubt—first, whether we even needed to go, and second, whether it was too late. In the small apartment where an old man had settled us, the microwave showed the time—it was two o’clock in the afternoon. I asked my friend if we would make it, and she said we might not, but it was worth it! The most advanced people there could see the spirits of characters from novels, which you could photograph, and it was supposed to turn out something incredible.
I hurried. At that moment, a tall pirate-like man entered the apartment without knocking, casually walked through the apartment, took something from the kitchen, and left. A little later, another man entered—he had long black hair and an Espanyolka, wearing a black pirate coat and a white shirt. Tall and imposing. He walked into the kitchen and bumped into me while I was holding a packet of some sweet snack that I wanted to take with me. I realized I had to give him something. He took the packet, then went into the kitchen and took a beautiful whiskey glass, a very interesting souvenir beer mug, and a glass ashtray from the cupboard. All this time, my friend was pulling me away from the doorframe so I wouldn’t spy on what he was taking.
It was a strange city with strange traditions, I thought. We seemed to be ready. For some reason, it was night. We had to pick up a few guys so we could all go together. Why we needed them was unclear. With a group of about 7-8 guys, we went to pick up the last one, who popped his head out of the door and said he would be right there. After that, he jumped off the balcony in the form of a beautiful, three-dimensional, multi-pointed crystal star, which shattered into sparkling pieces when it hit the ground. From these splinters, the guy reformed.
Our group was waiting for the “star” boy below. My friend had already turned into someone else. The guys surrounded her and almost started touching her. One of them touched her lips with something sweet, shaped like a huge phallus. She sweetly said, “You are ruining… my lipstick,” and started kissing the guy.
I went into a slight shock from all of this and hurried to go home. On the way, I realized that this was a very strange city, and there were no women there. But despite the shortage of women, it was normal and not only legal but completely acceptable socially for women in this city to buy men for sex. On the way, a “pimp” approached me, offering me some pirate guy. But I liked the one with long black hair, and I decided to find him at all costs. I asked her if she knew where he was, and just as I turned the corner, I saw him. It seemed like he was standing there, waiting for me. I took his hand and pulled him into the house.