Dream Record #2309 (or exercise in just trying to write anything)

The college was actually a whole arena. She sat nervously at her desk, knowing she hadn't and couldn’t do the work, the teacher was picking up three years of assignments and she didn’t have hers. She tried to sneak out the school but the guards like storm troopers barred the way. She knew they would shoot at the slightest provocation.

Somehow she escaped, finding her way to a girlfriend’s house, where two of her friends wished to have a sleepover with her. But they just started taunting her. Relentlessly. She’d fall to her knees and beg and beg but they wouldn’t stop with their jabs and insults. Sometimes they’d let her think they were being nice, only to grow hurtful once more.

At the arena-college the next day, the teachers started treating her like her friends had, then the faculty, two of which were ex-boyfriends and one a close girlfriend who had died from flu complications a few years back. The girl wore fishnet hose, and the back seams appeared to break apart constantly, her legs slit open at the edges of the seams. The flesh kept wanting to drop away but the girl kept stitching herself back up.

With one of her ex’s she kept saying, “You used to be nice. What happened?” He’d simply insult her more, making her cry. She was angry and threw a tin can at him, tried to choke him. Nothing worked.

Her two girlfriends from the sleepover came back and this time they were asking her advice on some things yet still mocking her, giggling when she provided answers to their questions.
     
“Dress up for us,” one of the girls commanded.
     
So she did this, aware that she was pooling her face with the palest foundation, like trying to make a liquid mask. Suddenly her face grew transparent and she could see right through to her skull, where the oozing yellow substance of a disease she didn’t know was collecting in her eye sockets.

She donned a dress of black feathers and a pair of strange black shoes with curled toes where tiny chimneys rested. She was greatly saddened by the fact she knew the chimneys would never be lit again.

They applauded her when she was finished, had her twirl about for their pleasure.

“Now design us a house,” they chimed.
     
“No,” she said emphatically, knowing she could not do that, it would ruin them, destroy their well-being, their very souls. “I could only make you a certain type of house, and you would go crazy living in it. The walls would be black, the furniture made of gravestone marble, hard and cold against your skin. Also, I would have to place a casket in every room.”
     
The casket suddenly appeared before her, but it was the kind that was environmentally safe, disintegrated in the earth. Like a paper mache submarine. The odd material crumbled within her hand.

Suddenly she was entombed within it, irrevocably sealed forever by endless white tracings of children's glue, and only then did everyone and everything else vanish. She was floating on a vast ocean and somehow she knew all life but hers had become extinct.

She sighed with pleasure, finally feeling safe. Untouchable.