Sage. Wendy Anne
With a swift jerk of his blade, her head falls to the ground, and her body is limp in an instant. He then takes the children by their necks, which are horrified and screaming at their mother’s demise. One at a time, he snaps at their throats until they too lay limp and silent beside their mother, who is still oozing blood into a puddle around them. The older girl is dragged away, and though spared from seeing her family’s ill-fated death, she could hear the sounds of her terrified siblings just before their lives are shortened by the soldier’s hands.
Still paralyzed by fear, I want to reach out and stop the chaos, but I cannot. I try to close my eyes and will them to become shields protecting me from these surreal images—to no avail. The screaming still resonates in my mind. And I know this girl, whose family was butchered in the sand while she was forced down and blindfolded, and I can feel the emotional pain she felt being ripped from her mother and siblings. This causes a surge of overpowering anger that frees me from my paralyzed stupor. I will break her free, protect her from these demonic men. Coughing saliva from the back of my throat to wet my tongue, I gather all the determination I have and shout to create a distraction, bring the doom onto me, and protect this girl from being dragged off into the desert. I use some of the pent-up aggression growing in my core, fueled by my frustration at being able to do nothing but witness this brutality since arriving here, to scream, but there is no reaction. Though I did summon a noise of protest, the air never reaches the brutal scene, and never exceeds my immediate vicinity, because petrified murmurs swallow my voice. I continue to rage as if I am the one tied down and as if it were my family mutilated. I try once more to scream as hard as I possibly can, and as I do, my body is shaken, my face begins to sweat, but all I can produce is an airless shriek.
V
Stirringly Awakened
The night begins to fade quickly. A deep, yet soft, voice pierces the night—not hers, but that of a familiar man. “Honey. Honey?” the voice calls out. “Wake up.” I open my eyes to see Bruce sitting over me with a terrified look.
I must have awakened him with an actual scream as evident by his expression and the dry rasp caught in my throat. “It seemed so real,” I pant. Grabbing me tightly in his strong arms, he forces me upright, enabling me to awaken entirely; his eyes were full of fear and compassion.
“Did I wake you?” I ask. He rolls his eyes condescendingly but speaks in a loving manner. “Yes…but I don’t mind. The first thing I get to look forward to is seeing your beautiful face in the morning. You are no less beautiful terrified. Besides, I have come to terms with the fact that you sometimes become possessed in your sleep. Lucky for me, you also become a frisky green-eyed sex demon on occasion too.”
It is times like this I credit Bruce for not choosing to sleep in a guest room, being fully aware of the ungodly hour he must rise. I kiss him softly on his chest, where my head lay. It takes me a while to adjust back to my element. Nothing needs to be said at this point, but sometimes saying less is truly more with us. I placed a pillow under his body and asked him to lie down. I would not be able to sleep anymore tonight, but I wouldn’t imprison him to any further extent with my craziness. And still, the voice of the child remains fresh in my mind.
It is strange how you’d sometimes assume that your subconscious mind cannot rationalize anything. Maybe it is even stranger that your conscious mind can rationalize things you do not fully understand. I have always depended on my common sense to find the logic of things. It is separation from the chaos of emotion that has given me strength in all cynical aspects of my life so far. Instead of wondering why I would have such a nightmare, the logical part of me believes it was a result of the day’s frustration, mixed with my past demons—and nothing more. Maybe it can all be chalked up to abandonment issues from my time spent in a foster home when I was young. Dreams are not usually meant to make sense, and mine hardly do. Not too long ago, I remember waking up from a dream of Bruce having an affair. I felt hot and bothered, strangely. Perhaps my friend Zoe was right, that pain and pleasure come from the same receptors. Either way, the dream made no sense. Bruce is not the cheating type. He’s sometimes basic when it comes to the realms of my deeper interests, but he keeps me grounded to both the norm and the safety of his monogamy.
At 3:00 a.m., the question always truly is, do I want to have an early start or a late one? If I decide to go to bed now, I would sleep well into the late hours, and need to rush while waking up. If I stay awake, I would be tired and not as sharp at work. After a night with no rest, these are the two wonderful options I am left with. At the mental flip of a coin, intuition decides I should stay awake. I will become a curse on my family whereas they will have to deal with my abject presence today. Besides, it has been a long while since I have experienced their early morning routine.
I go downstairs to sit at the dining room table to stay alert. It seems that most of the furniture I placed in my home is there for comfort or cosmetic purposes. The dining room table is very pleasing to the eyes, but not exactly comfortable enough to lounge in for any extended amounts of time. There are seven classic open X-back chairs made of solid wood, with a soft antique white finish. The back of the chairs stand perfectly upright and aren’t the slightest bit flexible. The table always glistens and smells of orange oil wood polish. A crystal chandelier in the shape of a pyramid drapes over the table’s oval center, illuminating the central point of the overall dining room. The general motif is alive with color and awakens the senses. To sit in anywhere else in my home would defeat any attempt to stay awake. I grab a couple of business magazines to keep busy until my family is up and roaming the house. I particularly like independently published, store-them-later types of magazines, and I have an innate fondness for the printed word. A certain number of magazines engage my senses of touch, smell, and sight. I’ve always been particularly fond of glitzy semigloss prints and the sound of the waxlike crumpling paper between my fingertips. Conversely, I prefer the smell of an old musty book written during the turn of the twentieth century, but I certainly don’t have the time to relish in such a worthy way.
Mechanical thoughts, such as business pieces, help bring me into the realm of rationalized contemplation. This temporality sways me from the realm of subconscious influence. I honor my subconscious intuition quite frequently through poetry and other forms of art, but I save all of that genius for the later parts of my empty evenings, not before work.
Cheyanne’s voice, more flamboyant than daylight, greets me at the table just before the sun yawns through the window. I must have nodded out slightly for the time to pass so quickly. What a deception of sleep that was!
My daughter has the amazing ability to wake with a gleaming smile on her face. It’s just as it is during weekends, only bizarre to be experiencing it at the start of a workday.
“Good morning, Mommy. Are you waiting for someone to carry you to bed?” she jokes. Cheyanne is a jokester. She’s confident, humble, and usually polite, save for her condescending moments, which are typically rectified and almost always amusing as in this particular instance.
“No, honey, I am awake to observe your morning routine because it has been so long, and I simply fell asleep.” She glances over at the empty wine bottle on the counter and rolls her eyes with a smirk. Impressed by her false allegations, I remind myself she is only nine years old. I am not much of a drinker, but I have had my moments, and Cheyanne has a memory almost as rare as her individuality. Waiting for a reply, she gives me a sideways smile, too endearing to ignore. I reach for her lower abdomen and tickle her, prepared for a loud screech.
“Mommy is awake?” A second voice creeps around the corner, as Bruce arrives and reaches for my lower stomach to return the favor. I pretend to laugh, but both of them see through it and shrink back. In an instant, my body language reveals the “me” that they and I all tried to avoid—the inevitable grouch I am every morning.
Trying to salvage the moment, I offer to cook breakfast. Still, the dream is not out of my mind. With my back facing my husband and child, the sound of French toast and meatless sausages sizzle in the distance of my semiconscious mind. I stare blankly at the back of the stove, quiet, listless, and tired.
VI
Art Junky
I