Part 4 Beyond Dreamscape
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Transfictive Dream free porn video
Transfictive Dreams
By Alan Teague Bittig
It is four thirty in the morning. The night has peaked; the darkness is
complete and inescapable. Thick mist rises from the ground and coats the air
with a heavy, sad smelling perfume of ozone and pollutants. I am walking down a
lonely street in the temporarily abandoned heart of the cities downtown.
Just two hours ago these streets swarmed with thousands of reckless
bodies, this road played stage in countless dramatic reproductions of human
issues. Now it is a distant path, silent with the exception of the dull rattle
of beer cans which a smooth, quick breeze blow down the street almost like
leaves in a late autumn stream.
I could kick myself out of desperation and still wouldn't feel anything at
all. Crazy way to be, I guess, but not one that begs for contemplation. I
should be asleep right now in a thirty-dollar hotel room, a bunch of people I
barely like and only call friends out of some insane need to be liked passed out
all around me. That would be the plan. Too much beer and little weed can
sometimes send plans off course, though. Oh well. I continue walking and try
not to wonder how I'm going to travel 200 miles on foot. I try not to wonder if
I'm even going to bother going home.
Suddenly, inexplicably, a light half a block down blinks on in the
stillborn morning. It's long after bar close, long before respectable shops
will open. I am filled with a strange compulsion to find out what it is. I
start walking faster, hopping cracks, not quite running but moving faster than
my drained body wants too.
Getting closer I can make out the building in the hazy semi-reality of the
flickering orange street lamps. It is an old building; firm Carolina red brick
with heavy storm windows filled with colored scraps of paper, newspaper
clippings and faded posters. It has all the qualities of an antique shop or a
thrift store. I move closer.
The street sign sputters against the empty night with a garish pallet of
neon colors. First Street School of Awareness, it reads. I see a faded poster
hung neatly in one of the crowded windows, its corners peeling inward against
the flamboyant text. All visitors and students welcome, it says.
Hours of operation will vary. Please come in.
The door is slightly ajar, glowing around the edges with an almost magical
quality. Tentatively, I push it open. A small bell cheerfully chimes, warning
the inhabitants of an impending guest.
I walk in coughing lightly and stomping my feet. The yellow floorboards
creak and pop as I walk down the narrow hallway. "Hello?" I call out into the
lightness. "Is there anyone here?"
The interior is almost as surreal as the windows. I am standing in a
long, narrow hallway with heavy doors leading off sporadically on either side.
The paint is peeling from the walls and the light fixtures are pulling
themselves loose of the ceiling. I take another few steps forward.
Starting to feel nervous I raise my voice again. "Hello, are you open?"
"Please, come in," cries a voice from behind a door at the far end of the
hallway. "Come talk to me."
"Um... Maybe I should go." Instead I shuffle a few feet forward.
"No, not at all. I've been waiting for you all night."
"I'm sorry," I say with shame, stopping in my tracks. "I'm not who you're
waiting for. I'm sorry to break into your place."
Again the voice, calm, reasoned, still. "No, come to me."
"But I don't have an appointment here. I just stumbled in."
"And I've been waiting all night for someone to stumble in. So come
here."
"Um, all right." Swallowing the dry spit in my mouth and quickly licking
my lips I force myself to cover the distance to the end of the hallway. I slowly
push the wooden door open and step inside. The first thing I see is a woman
with blond wavy hair that hangs from her malformed head in lose clumps. She is
sitting in a brown chair reading a newspaper dated three days ago. Above my
head florescent lights hum and purr, spreading even, unbroken brightness into
every corner of the room.
Slowly and with undeniable grace she folds the paper and tucks it up into
her armpit. She stands and wiggles her finger at me. "Come a little closer,"
she says lightly.
I mutter a series of incoherent sounds and divert my eyes to the floor.
"Are you scared of me?" she asks.
I grunt.
"Well that just doesn't make any sense. After all, you're the one who
walked into my house uninvited at four in the morning!"
"I just saw the sign outside," I whisper. "I don't know what I was
thinking. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about. Just come a little bit closer and let me get a good
look at you. I don't get to see many new people these days."
I comply, hesitantly, barely lifting the souls of my shoes
from the ground as I shuffle towards her chair. Standing beside her I quickly
realize why she seems so unhealthy. Her pale skin is deeply scared, in the
corners of her lips and on her forehead fresh eruptions bubble in sickening
shades of white and red and black.
"I'm Penelope," she says coyly.
"My name is Harold," I tell her.
"Well, Harold. Good morning."
"Same to you."
There is a strange silence for several minutes. She looks at me and nods
her head, then shakes it, then nods again. I stand as still as I can, though my
knees shake with some bizarre nervous energy and my hands have an odd compulsion
to travel to my face, so that by the time I realize I'm covering my mouth and
jerk them down to my side they have already climbed back up.
She breaks the silence with a loud sigh.
"What's wrong," I ask, feigning concern.
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all. In fact, I think I can help you."
"Help me what?"
"Help you be aware."
"Oh. Okay. And how do I become aware. I don't have any money on me so I
hope it's just advice and not classes or anything because really if it's
class..."
She interrupts me. "You really shouldn't ramble like that."
"Sorry."
"It's all right."
"So what's up?"
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two. What's going on?"
"You weigh what? One fifty, one sixty?"
"You've really lost me."
"One fifty sounds right. And you're about six feet tall, blonde hair,
blue eyes..."
"Look, you're steaming right on ahead and you've definitely lost me. What
do you want?"
"Harold, right now I want you to sit down. If you want you can have my
chair."
"That's all right, I'll take the floor." I crouch against the wall,
resting on my heels, my knees pulled tightly against my chest.
She grins at me, her face shifting in the light, almost melting. From the
upward angle she has suddenly become beautiful, with pale, unmarked skin and
gleaming blue eyes. I blink and look away, then back. I must be hallucinating
again. When I look back everything is as it was before.
"Now," she says. "Now that we have the basic information I need you to
answer a few questions for me. It's important that you answer me honestly."
"All right, I guess. Won't you tell me what's going on first though?"
She cuts me a look somewhere between a warning and a reprimand. Live and
learn, her face seems to say, but don't expect to know everything all at once.
"Let's start with an easy one," she says brightly, tapping her foot.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Harold," I answer; too curious to find out what she's doing to
protest any further.
"Harold," she nods and smiles, a bead of spit flies out of her mouth and
lands on the tip of my nose. "And who is Harold?"
"Harold is all kinds of crazy different people, I guess. I kind of change
to fit my surroundings."
"Do you?"
"Well, yeah. It's kind of funny you go and ask me that cause I'm always
wondering the same thing myself. I don't really have a unique personality or
anything. I just kind of shift into whatever mode I need to be in."
"Is this an intentional shift?"
"Not really. It just kind of happens."
"And does it work?"
"I guess it works fine. People don't seem to mind. It doesn't really
work for me though."
"How many women have you been with?" she asks. This girl is all about
tangents. I am starting to think that her entire goal is to confuse and then
somehow humiliate me. I'm paranoid like that.
"Six, but five of those were in high school."
"And how many women have you been?"
"Well, none."
"But you told me that you're never the same person. That you're always
shifting and changing and being something different than before."
"I only meant that metaphorically."
"But have you ever wondered?"
"Wondered what. How things would be different if I was a
chick?"
"Well, uh-huh. Yeah."
"I don't really follow you."
"Follow me into the kitchen."
Only a minute or two later, I am standing on a sticky linoleum floor.
Odors of dust and dried flowers and bacon grease battle inside my nostrils.
She opens an old nineteen fifties style green refrigerator and pulls out a
coke. Her hands barely make it halfway around the faded can. She hands it too
me, there is a dent in the lower right hand side.
"Do you want me to drink this?"
She nods.
The heavy fluid rolls across my tongue. The carbonation burns the back of
my throat and the sticky, metallic, not quite sweet taste fills my mouth. My
world spins a little.
There is a pervasive buzzing in my hands and feet. As I slowly fade back
into awareness I wonder why I am lying on my floor, and then whose floor it is
and then where I am and why. Comprehension returns to my mind slowly, and not
without its share of questions. "Did I pass out," I moan, still buzzing.
"Yes," a voice answers. Whose voice? That woman, Penelope, I'm in her
house and it's five in the morning on a Sunday and I'm over two hundred miles
from the comfort of my home without a ride back.
"I'm sorry," I sputter, talking more to myself than anyone else.
"It's okay. Lay there as long as you need to. We'll talk when you can
stand up."
Moments pass, godless lonely moments. The tingling slowly fades to be
replaced by a much more uncomfortable feeling of incorrectness. "Ugh," I
mutter, then stop.
"Are you ready," Penelope asks me.
"I don't know. My voice sounds wrong."
"Your voice has changed."
"And my body feels wrong."
"Your body has changed."
"Am I going to like things if I stand up?"
"I don't know," she laughs. "I don't know you 'that' well. You do need
to stand sometime, though, so you might as well do it now."
I do, placing my hands firmly on the tiles and forcing my frame upward,
trying my best to ignore odd signals and motions I know my body should not be
making. Now, firm and steady against the sink I begin to take in the oddities
of everything around me.
My reference points in the room have inexplicably changed. I feel as if I
have shrunk six inches. I can no longer see the top of the refrigerator and my
hips come no higher than the top of the counter. Frightened, confused, I look
down at my body, at
the strange gravity, which pulls against me in such a subtle way. What I see is
unimaginable.
My chest has swollen into a couple of bulbous, fleshy sacks. They hang
freely and firmly, perhaps the size of grapefruits, though less circular, they
look like a woman's breasts. I know, somewhere inside, that they are.
Hoping to prove my conclusion wrong I move my hand down towards the
strange aching void in my most sensitive of areas. I reach deep, cup my crouch
and fill my hand with hair. Now the terror strikes.
"It can't be true," I scream. "It's impossible. It's wrong."
"It is very true, Harold," Penelope tells me. "Or at least it's as true
as anything else."
"I'm crazy. I don't believe you. It's not right."
"It's right and it's real. Look at yourself," she tells me, pointing to
an old, dusty cupboard door. "Open it up, there's a mirror in there."
I move towards it, anxious and unsupported in places I have never needed
support before. Everything feels wrong, weighs wrong, hangs wrong. Still
hoping for the hallucination to die I step up to the door, hesitate for god
knows how long, steal myself and lose my nerve again, then, with a final wheeze
of desperation, throw it open. My mind does not at first catch what
my eyes now see.
Finally, securing my fragile sanity and stepping back from the brink of
total mental collapse, I stare in awe at this person who stands in the same
space as me, so much the same and so much different. I cannot even begin to
describe what I see. Staring at me in that cracked piece of glass was the woman
I feared I'd become.
Her hair still brown, like mine, cut uneven across the bangs and short down the
sides. Her eyes were blistering gray, wrapped in puffed tired flesh, which is
jarringly red on her pale face. I wink, she winks, I sigh, and she sighs.
She has the same porcelain beauty that graces my mother and sisters. Even the
details are perfect, down to the unopened whitehead above my left eyebrow. Gone
are my five days of facial growth, though I still somehow manage to look rough.
Gone are the sharpest contours of my face, smoothed and sanded but still cut
from the same block of wood. A tear pools in this
woman's eye and I feel it run down my cheek.
"You really did do it to me," I shriek, overwhelmed by a hideous feeling of fear
and despair and hate.
"It was the only way," Penelope says. "You came for help and I have helped you.
Your life will be clearer now."
"But how is this supposed to make me more content?"
"Not more content, Harold. You completely misunderstand. Our mission is to
make people aware of who they are and set them on the path to their potential."
"But why a girl? I never wanted to be a girl."
"Desire and necessity are two different things. You could never have been
anything more than lost the way you were. Now you have the ability to find the
answers to everything you have ever wondered about."
"But how does changing people into girls give them that ability?"
"Not girls, not at all. People are different, and people need different things.
Sometimes it's the color of their eyes; sometimes it's the size of their feet.
I have made fat men thin and thin women fat. I've healed lameness and caused
horrific deformities. One man came in as a genius and left with an IQ of
seventy-five. The only common thread that binds our clientele is an abstract
desire to discover their own inner uniqueness and an absolute inhibition, call
it laziness, to actually go out and
track it down."
"But how is it right for me, I don't want it, so how is it right?"
"You do want it, though. You want it somewhere."
"No."
"Yes," she states. "You must. Somewhere in your mind is a block.
Something stops you from doing anything at all. This desire, however hidden, is
that block. That, dear little oh so beautifully feminine Harold, is what we do
here."
"But how am I supposed to go home?" I beg.
"Did you want to go home?" she counters.
"How am I going to get a job? I don't have any kind of identification."
She shrugs. "Will finds way, or something like that, right?"
"All I'm going to be able to do is wander around."
"What were you doing before?"
Defeated, I sigh. "Wandering around."
"Well, enough of this," she says. "Let's go into the other room." She
firmly grasps my hand and leads me away from the kitchen.
The 'other' room is as bare as the rest of the place. White walls,
hardwood floors, narrow shaded windows. In the corner there is a chalkboard.
It is dim filthy green and hangs neatly on the wall. Written across it in large,
block letters letters is 'Malaise'. Beneath, in a smaller, less fluid script
are the words 'An indefinite feeling of uneasiness, or of being sick or ill at
ease.'
"Leftovers," Penelope sighs. "A lesson for someone else."
She is tall and slim now, wearing a gray dress that hangs from her body
without contour or form. I turn and blink. I must be hallucinating again.
This time she does not change back and retains her new form. Almost like smoke
she moves across the room and wipes her arm over the board, erasing the writing.
She stares at it for an insane amount of time, motionless except for the slight
breaths, which barely dent her statuesque posture.
Eventually, she shakes her head and looks directly at me. "I've always thought
it was funny how we have words for vague feelings of depression and descriptions
of unprovoked displeasure, but we have nothing, or at least I know of nothing,
which would describe a similar emotion of happiness or pleasure."
The curtains have begun to glow, light scraping around their edges. I
realize that I have been here an eternally short amount of time. I can no
longer help it, my eyes feel heavy and my body feels light. Moisture pools, I
try to wink it away, but it pools... and pours.
"It's insane," I whimper. "It's gone and crazy and nothing's right and I
can't handle this and..." I gag, huff, make small noises, and curl inward onto
myself.
And then, before I can collapse, Penelope grabs me. She leans closer
still and sucks my lower lip inside her mouth, gently teasing my shaking flesh
with her hopelessly soft hands. Suddenly, she pulls back, flicking her raven
hair behind her shoulder and exposing her blemished neck. She smiles, revealing
a mouth full of rotting teeth, and she sighs. "Don't worry about anything,
Harold. Don't worry about your mind or your life or any of the years that will
inevitably come and go. You'll be all right."
"Maybe." I turn away from her, shifting again but now slightly more
comfortable with that particular displaced weight. I pull open the shades,
staring out the window and trying, for just a moment, to wake myself up. For a
moment I think I have, coming to sudden awareness on a hard hotel bed, rolling
into the body of women I never loved, gasping is quick desperation. I look away
and blink. I am hallucinating again.
Outside the sun has not yet risen but the sky is an opaque shield of
maroon and lavender and gray. There is a silent purity to the sky and I think
for a moment that I might be able to lose myself in its swirling beauty.
After several minutes I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Will you walk outside
with me?" Penelope asks.
"Sure, I guess I might as well."
She leads me by my arm out the back door and into the sticky freshness of
another acid sunrise. "This is our garden," she tells me. "Our only source of
life and light." Her voice is animated. Her now green eyes are sparkling. "We
all love it very much," she adds sharply. "We love it more than we love
ourselves."
"It's a nice looking garden," I say. "I can see that you put a lot of
effort into keeping it healthy."
"Effort?" she asks. "Oh, no. We do nothing to it. The garden cares for
itself."
"So now, after this, after you did this, now that I'm able to know who I
am, now I'll finally find what I've always wanted, right?"
She shrugs. "Do you know what you want now? Has it come to you yet? What
were you looking so hard for that you wound up finding me?"
"I don't know."
"Sure you do, you must. You wouldn't be standing here right now if you
weren't starting to become aware. So are you. Are you aware yet?"
"Maybe?"
"So what is it?"
"I guess it's just somewhere that I can blend into, you know. A place
where I can completely immerse myself in the ways and the skills and just be a
vibrant, sought after member of some community."
"But you'll never find that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's the kind of thing that you just come across. It either
happens or it doesn't. The more energy you spend looking the less you have to
live."
It drizzles, stops, and drizzles again. There is nothing to do or say
except stand in the mud and watch the countless showing of dawn in the theater
of the sky. And slowly, ever so painfully, the light climbs over the roofs of
the buildings and causes the garden to glow.
I decide that my name, from now until eternity, from here until the end,
must pay homage to this moment. I will call myself Morning.
The sun finally appears, hung gracefully from the middle branches of the
ancient tree like a giant fruit. It is partially obscured by dusty Spanish
moss. For several minutes it seems to be trapped and time itself feels tangled
and motionless. Then, with an enormous effort it crests the top of the tree,
burns against the morning mist, and climbs quickly and purposefully up into the
winter sky. The dead wildflowers and bare shrubs in the garden begin to dance
in the wind while the pervasive dampness slowly seems to fade. I turn towards
Penelope and smile. She smiles back.
Can I get out through that gate over there?" I ask her.
"Of course," she answers. "I don't think it's locked."
End
Dani
- 23.05.2022
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