Ive been afraid to sleep for the past couple of days now. For the last six weeks or so Ive been having a reoccurring nightmare.
A couple of episodes into Adult Swim I get brave enough to decide that laying my tired head on something soft overwhelms my hesitancy to venture into my dark room. I get up of the couch, raise my arms above my head and stretch, then casually ask Donny if he wouldnt like to go to bed with me, call it quits for the night.
Hey D- man, go to bed with me? I nonchalantly walk around the living room, collecting odd cups and dishes, stray pieces of trash, doing my best imitation of someone who does not care if she goes to bed alone. I wont look at him, afraid my wide and hopeful eyes will give away my weakness.
Naw babe, Ill be there in a little while.
Damn. Shot down. Okay. Its okay. I mean really, its just a dream, but Ive been dreaming the same thing so many times Im starting to believe its true. I will my feet to walk down the hall, then into my room. I flip the light switch, quickly. Straight to the bathroom, wash my face, keeping the bathroom door open so I can see behind me in the mirror. Slip into my AC/DC pajama shorts, throw on a beater, and thenshit. I have nothing else to do. No more distractions. I crawl into bed, being sure to keep my back to the window and my face towards the closet. I lay like that, prone in the fetal position for a long time. My eyelids are heavy, but I will not close them until they fall of their own accord.
And then I see it. Somewhere inside me, I knew it was happening. The ninjas are here. I can see the first of I cant fathom how many. Swathed in all black, he has removed the plank of ceiling that covers my attic storage, hidden away in my tiny walk in closet. I can see his head, coming out of the hole before the rest of him, rappelling his way into my room, SWAT style. Why? What do these ninjas want from me?
Time runs on a slower continuum as I watch the ninja and let the possibilities run through my head as I lay still in bed planning my next move. Are my ancient bloodlines a threat to their crown? Are they an elite force of a secret army, like a ninja CIA, sent by the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />US government to spy on me, to learn of my political prowess? Am I considered a threat to national security? Who sent you ninja men? Who do you work for? How many of you are there up there in the rafters above my closet?
I start looking around me, slowly, so as not to spook the ninja head not 20 feet away from me in my closet. I am looking for possible weapons I can use in the eminent struggle to ensue. This would be easier if I knew how many ninjas were up there. I mean a well thrown remote to the temple might stun one ninja long enough for me to kick some testicles and then break an arm, but when do you ever see evil ninjas alone? They always swarm onto the scene, coming out of the woodwork like termites. So I have to figure that there are many more than the solitary ninja I can see. Unless this one ninja taking so much time lowering himself onto the floor of my closet. Is he THE ninja, the super villain, the evil mastermind behind all of these nighttime torments? If he is alone, the I know its trouble with a capital T.
I squirm in my bed, breath coming a little faster, muscle clenched, jaw locked. This is THE fight, I can tell. I can taste it. I know that man in my closet- he is the ultimate opponent- the worst is out to get me, and goddamn it, I WILL be ready. The motive of the ninja in my closet is unknown, but what is known is the consequences. I have the advantage of being the hero- the bringer of poetic justice, the innocent trying to sleep in what should be the peace of my bedroom sanctuary, and this asshole, this bugger in his black ninja clothes invaded my sanctuary, pissed in my temple if you will, and he has chosen the wrong victim. I will fight back, I will push even in the dark recess of his cave, so the world is safe once again, if only for a little while. I am a ray of golden light, aglow with the inherent GOODNESS inside me, the intense golden light that you only see on certain sunsets on certain summer days. I am bright and rich and soft and warm a blazing gold rather than the pale buttery yellow of normal sunshine. I will fight, lest evil prevails. I will fight to the death, a valiant knight for my Lady Good.
I am not stupid. I know how the world works. I know evil is strong- Ive seen Star Wars. This is the supervillan. The world is kept in a balance- if there is one thing, the opposite exists somewhere. For man there is woman, for love there is hate, jealously dances with generosity, passion flirts with disinterest, for every star born another gives its last sputter. Ying and yang. Harmony. For every shove I throw, evil will push. This I know. I am still staring at this ninja, -neither of us has moved in the last few minutes. But then he starts it. He turns his head toward me, his eyes cold blue bullets. I know those eyes. It is the cold steely stare of a demon. They feel no empathy, no soul, no love. The time has come- Its a game of chicken now.
I fly out of my bed as he does this Matrix-esque slow motion flip off his rappelling rope and onto the floor. We clash like gladiators. I throw myself into a flying frontal kick, but he blocks. I drop to the floor and go for the kneecaps. He stumbled and grunts, but does not fall. He jabs at me with his gloved fist, hits me in the jaw. His eyes blaze as I recoil from the blow, and I know then that pain gets him off. He enjoys my pain, feeds off it, can smell it on me, like a beast smells fear. Then I will show him no feeling- except what it feels like to be hurt. I make my hand rigid and straight and slam it into his throat. He kicks me in the stomach. My senses tingle, my stomach churns, offended at its injury, but I refuse to show the effect hes had on my anatomy. We throw punches back and forth for awhile. Every blow is returned, every kick well-placed and painful. Hands and legs and feet fly so fast I have no idea which are mine. I fight with all I have, not thinking, just letting my body revert to the fight side of the prehistoric fight or flight response left over from cave man days. Pure instinct. Flesh smacking flesh and guttural grunts, the only sound in the room, muscles feeling like live wires, limbs like beasts that want to be released from the confines of their cages. We fight, matched, silent, as equals. Neither of us succumbs to the pain, not even for a second. No yelps of pain, only primeval grunts of appreciation for the others strength. He slaps me open-handed across the face. I feel my lip burst, taste the metallic tang of fresh blood, but am more offended at the bitch slap then the bleeding of my own blood. Who the fuck does this guy take me for? Some ditzy housewife who does not know of the power of my own body? As something lesser than man, so insignificant a simple smack to the kisser will turn me into a sniveling wreck? No Evil ninja, not my beautiful face! Thats my meal ticket. Well youre in for a surprise boy. He has seen my anger and is lapping it up like a drunkard eating nachos. My anger has kicked me off guard. I shouldve kept control, because his hand has found itself a vice-tight grip on my jugular.
I see little bubbles of red and green in my peripheral vision. He slams me into the wall, knocking my head on the Dali print on the wall. His hand is colder than Martha Stewart. I shouldve kept my guard, this is my fault. I let my defenses down while searching for an offense. I knew this could happen. Hes matched me blow for blow. We have just been pushing against each other harder, resisting, never giving in. But I let emotions and anger flood over me and wash away all concentration. Killed by my feminist disposition. Thanks Gloria Steinum. But I should have known better. When two forces are evenly matched- as good and evil are- the victor is a surprise, no matter who wins. You cant make a mistake.
The little red and green stars flood into my brain and bubble in my lungs. He gets right up in my face, eye to eye. I can taste his fetid breathe in my nostrils. His eyes are dull. Pure evil radiates- looking into his eye I get a vision. My mind receives a projection of violence for me- starving children with bloated bellies, mushroom clouds over dark cities strewn with the bloodied limbs of an unknown population, a blackened bleeding body in an alley, a woman being beaten savagely with a belt, a crowd of angry men around a scared teenage girl, a boy being stabbed while tied with sheets to a bed. I hear screams of agony, the beggings for mercy, the prayers- the smell of scorched flesh, the feel of lightning pain shooting through me with every flash frame of misery. I know he is doing this. He is a demon. A devil. A spawn of that ultimate dichotomy- Heaven vs. hell. I am no angel. I cannot pull in any life sustaining oxygen, and Im pretty sure my esophagus is going to collapse any second. I can feel it popping and crunching, folding violently upon itself. I have only one way out.
I gather all the energy I can, and shoot for it. My knee jerks up into his man berries- the only spot he hasnt protected. Demon or not- he feels it. As he's dropping to his knees, I grab the back of his head and slam it into my knee, hard enough to jolt pain up my leg. Unconscious. I am suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline drops from the dead heat is was coursing through my blood. I stumble, grab onto a desk for support. I look down at the intruder. Eyes closed. I lean down and listen for breathing. Shallow. What now?
With a sudden impulse to look upon the face of evil- so it will know that I serve Lady Good and have fought gallantly- so it will feel in its arctic bones the nature of defeat- I jerk of the mask. The face makes me recoil in horror.
It was the ultimate opponent- the most evil man to have ever walked this earth, the left hand of Lucifer himself, the favorite son of Hades, the perfect embodiment of the darkside, malevolence, the eater of babies, the beater of kindly grandmother types, a true Sith lord, the creator of sin, that deadly serpent, and all that is bad in this world. The face. The pug-ish nose, the cold blues eyes, the hard mouth- the Prince of Darkness, Kevin Bacon.
I scream. I drop to my knees. I have bitten off more than I can chew. I shake, tremble all over. I manage to operate my tongue long enough to spill a few shaky whispers:
HailMary, full, of Grace Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death I can feel my impending Armageddon sneaking up like hungry avalanche. My heart slows, becomes louder, spills out of my ears and saturates my brain. A solitary bead of sweat travels from my forehead down into my eyes. The fight in me gives out. I have looked upon the face of death. I read its story.
Emily- wake up! This is the dream! I can hear my own voice, screaming in my head, frantic. Wake up! Wake up! I am still writhing on the floor, trying to sputter out prayer, rocking, pulling my hair. Wake UP! GET UP! NOW! My eyes are transfixed on the floor, on that cold calm face
On the floor, the distant glacial eyes pop open.
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