Sunday, March 1, 2009

an hours worth of sleep; terror sets in fast

"what are you doing?", I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I tried to be calm, friendly even. That is what you are supposed to do. Be a friend, not a victim, or a threat. He just stared at me, his eyes absent of any emotion.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you." Well that sounds comforting, I think to myself. I'm not going to hurt you. Yeah, real comforting words. I could feel the doubt pulse through my tall 'n slender body. All I wanted to do was sit in peace in the parking lot of school. But no, I can't even have THAT.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!!" I yelled, even the hint of a scream was present. He started reaching his arm through the window that was kept ajar to get air for the dog, a German Shepherd.

"I have a dog, and He'll eat the CRAP out of you." I tried to say it as seriously and factual and, and and, scarily as possible. My dog could be pretty fucking scary when he wanted to. I looked over, funny, I say this as he begins licking my face and searching for the extra goodies in my right jeans pocket. fuck. I could feel my fists clenching shut, the inner rage really sets in. He isn't listening to me. I HATE it when people do not listen to me.

"Don't come into my car. I am telling you, DO NOT come into my car."

The man, a slightly obese Mexican probably about 28, looks like he could be the janitor with a plaid button up and Levi Jeans and hair that looks grown out by two months, curly, was not listening to me. His arm rummaged around inside of my car, and he grabbed the emergency break in the center of the car and hoisted himself into my vehicle, through the crack of the window.


"I'm not going to hurt you." He pulled out the long rod that (I guess) was hidden down along the side of his pants and jams it into the window/lock of the passenger door. Where I sat. I tried to stop him, but I have barely any upperbody stength/muscle, and was merely pushed aside- he was even leaning over me, violating my space, the space I work so hard throughout the day to keep. My mean German shepherd looked up from the passenger side floor and cocked his head to the side.

"I told you I'm not going to hurt you." He smiled. "I have googolheim syndrome, it's a fungal disease. I cannot work." I frantically tried to open the door. Jiggling it and clawing at it. It wouldn't budge. I looked back over at him, fearful. He smiled again. He started moving towards me, the smile on his face turning sour. I can see through his eyes, he-

I woke up. Looking left toward the bathroom I saw a clown, dead, dangling from the ceiling, it's painted head, blank of expression, in the place where my disco ball normally shines. Where my disco ball SHOULD be shining. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I tried to picture something less morbid. I couldn't. I opened my eyes more. Repeated the process. I woke the fuck up. I am AWAKE. It's not real I told myself. It's not real. WHY IS IT NOT GOING AWAY. IT ISN'T FUCKING REAL. I hurriedly kicked my covers aside and grabbed the chain of my bedside lamp and yanked it with all my might. The room filled with yellow tinted light, the clown faded away.

It better be a fucking dream. It was.

I don't have nightmares. I don't. I didn't, anyway. I haven't had nightmares since 2nd grade. Since I lived in Claremont. Since it was the same nightmare every night for months. Every god damn fucking night. I changed that. I didn't want them anymore. I didn't want IT anymore. I remember waking up every night, my poor little body sweating from all of the fear that paralyzed it constantly. They went away after I made a deal with God to be good, tears running down my face. That was when we went to church every week and had bible study every Tuesday. Things have obviously changed since then. I still tried to be good. I still TRY to be good. I AM good.

I hope that this isn't a new trend.

I hope.

I can't deal.

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