000 :: the dream :: bury me beneath the hollywood sign
So, okay. I'm dreaming. At least, I think that I'm dreaming. Otherwise, I've got no better explanation as to what I'm doing here, on the top of some hill, standing in the shadow of what appears to be a really big H stuck into the ground. I shift my weight and can feel the underbrush crush beneath the warn out soles of my sneakers, and I can smell grass and exhaust from the freeway. Something tells me I'm home. A few feet off, right where the cross bar of the H casts a shadow like a goal post at a football field, I can see a mound of earth. And standing over it, there's this girl.
Well, actually, it would have been nice if it had been girl. No, the person standing there is really woman, which means minus ten points to her already. Which, alright, may not be fair, but since when has anything really been fair - let alone my dreams. When I take a step towards her, she turns quickly and it's suddenly like I'm looking into one of those mirrors they have at funhouses. Only instead of being taller or fatter or suddenly all bendy like pretzel, I'm older and maybe beautiful. I'm also kind of boring and dressed like a Desperate Housewife.
"Is this a grave?" I ask, flatly. My face feels unforgiving.
"Once upon a time you called it a plot. Because 'this is how every story ends'." It's funny to hear her say that, because, when I think about it - for the life of me, I can't ever remember those words coming out of my mouth. Though, admittedly, it sounds like something I would say. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" she continues and nods over her shoulder to the rise of freshly dug dirt. "Considering."
I frown. "Considering what?"
She rolls her eyes at me, rolls her eyes like this is grade school or - even worse - high school, before explaining. "Considering the fact that that's us."
There aren't really a lot of things a person can say to a statement like that. Well, beyond the obvious. You're crazy or what are you on or - the ever classic - I want to call my lawyer.
"Last time I checked, I wasn't the type to be caught dead looking like I'm on my way to the latest Stepford wives audition." I say flatly, looking at her from over my glasses. Like this, her face spreads wide with blur, like ink bleeding through wet paper and, I have to admit, she really does kind of look exactly like me. She smiles back - the way adults smile, like when you're young and you don't know any better. Back when they're still the end-all, be-all of the world.
Santa Claus is coming. This won't hurt a bit. We're so proud of you. That kind of smile.
Which is a shame really, cause what she says next actually makes a lot of sense. "The future is a threat," she tells me. "Not a promise."
Pushing up my glasses, I take a step forward, crossing my arms across my chest. "So wait, you're telling me there's a way to avoid this?"
"Maybe. But you'd better make it quick." She smiles. "They're coming," She says this last line like this is the Omen and she's just won the role of the overzealous, black-dogged nanny. And despite how creepy I know this little declaration of hers - or wait, is it mine? - should feel, the first thought that crosses my mind is: I hope I never live long enough to actually become this woman; her delivery is horrible.
Without warning, the ground starts to shake, and nothing shy either, we're talking solid 6.0 territory. Looking up the sky suddenly blots itself out as six - no, wait, are there twelve? - looming shadows seem to appear out of nowhere, and they're so tall and wide and all-encompassing, I can't really bring myself to look up a them properly. I'm almost afraid that I'll see myself there, reflected somehow back at me again. Like this lady, only a million times worse. And that part of me won't be surprised.
The last thing I hear the woman say before the world is swallowed up by darkness is: "Don't worry. This isn't a new thing. Don't you remember, we've been here before?"
"No wait!" I shout out into the black. It's cold, and I don't like it here. "No, I don't remember! What did I do the last time?" For some reason I can't feel my toes and the tips of my fingers have gone numb. I reach out and scramble to find a handle on something, but I can't even tell anymore if I'm standing on solid ground.
Behind me, the woman laughs, and the sound of it is strange, like it's echoing in the distance but at the same time is coming from directly inside my brain. Like it's me thinking, not her talking. Which, if she's telling the truth, should technically be the same thing. "Same as always," is what she tells me, and - even though I don't really want to trust her - I immediately feel slightly better. "You took a deep breath and with all of your might, you did the only thing you know how to do...Don't you remember?"
No, I think, tell me.
"…You ran."
Well, actually, it would have been nice if it had been girl. No, the person standing there is really woman, which means minus ten points to her already. Which, alright, may not be fair, but since when has anything really been fair - let alone my dreams. When I take a step towards her, she turns quickly and it's suddenly like I'm looking into one of those mirrors they have at funhouses. Only instead of being taller or fatter or suddenly all bendy like pretzel, I'm older and maybe beautiful. I'm also kind of boring and dressed like a Desperate Housewife.
"Is this a grave?" I ask, flatly. My face feels unforgiving.
"Once upon a time you called it a plot. Because 'this is how every story ends'." It's funny to hear her say that, because, when I think about it - for the life of me, I can't ever remember those words coming out of my mouth. Though, admittedly, it sounds like something I would say. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" she continues and nods over her shoulder to the rise of freshly dug dirt. "Considering."
I frown. "Considering what?"
She rolls her eyes at me, rolls her eyes like this is grade school or - even worse - high school, before explaining. "Considering the fact that that's us."
There aren't really a lot of things a person can say to a statement like that. Well, beyond the obvious. You're crazy or what are you on or - the ever classic - I want to call my lawyer.
"Last time I checked, I wasn't the type to be caught dead looking like I'm on my way to the latest Stepford wives audition." I say flatly, looking at her from over my glasses. Like this, her face spreads wide with blur, like ink bleeding through wet paper and, I have to admit, she really does kind of look exactly like me. She smiles back - the way adults smile, like when you're young and you don't know any better. Back when they're still the end-all, be-all of the world.
Santa Claus is coming. This won't hurt a bit. We're so proud of you. That kind of smile.
Which is a shame really, cause what she says next actually makes a lot of sense. "The future is a threat," she tells me. "Not a promise."
Pushing up my glasses, I take a step forward, crossing my arms across my chest. "So wait, you're telling me there's a way to avoid this?"
"Maybe. But you'd better make it quick." She smiles. "They're coming," She says this last line like this is the Omen and she's just won the role of the overzealous, black-dogged nanny. And despite how creepy I know this little declaration of hers - or wait, is it mine? - should feel, the first thought that crosses my mind is: I hope I never live long enough to actually become this woman; her delivery is horrible.
Without warning, the ground starts to shake, and nothing shy either, we're talking solid 6.0 territory. Looking up the sky suddenly blots itself out as six - no, wait, are there twelve? - looming shadows seem to appear out of nowhere, and they're so tall and wide and all-encompassing, I can't really bring myself to look up a them properly. I'm almost afraid that I'll see myself there, reflected somehow back at me again. Like this lady, only a million times worse. And that part of me won't be surprised.
The last thing I hear the woman say before the world is swallowed up by darkness is: "Don't worry. This isn't a new thing. Don't you remember, we've been here before?"
"No wait!" I shout out into the black. It's cold, and I don't like it here. "No, I don't remember! What did I do the last time?" For some reason I can't feel my toes and the tips of my fingers have gone numb. I reach out and scramble to find a handle on something, but I can't even tell anymore if I'm standing on solid ground.
Behind me, the woman laughs, and the sound of it is strange, like it's echoing in the distance but at the same time is coming from directly inside my brain. Like it's me thinking, not her talking. Which, if she's telling the truth, should technically be the same thing. "Same as always," is what she tells me, and - even though I don't really want to trust her - I immediately feel slightly better. "You took a deep breath and with all of your might, you did the only thing you know how to do...Don't you remember?"
No, I think, tell me.
"…You ran."