Dream Series 3
October 31 - November 1
He recognizes it immediately. The large, open room, the gaudy furniture, the pulsing red light from the billboard outside the window. It's his mother's flat.
The lights are dim, the windows dark. There's a sense of anticipation in the air -- the constant feeling that something is just about to happen, as though the world were on pause.
He catches his reflection in a large round mirror that he can't remember having seen before.
The reflection is an image he recognizes intimately, even though he's never seen it from the outside. Wild curls of hair, a tribal mask of silver-blue face paint, gleaming armour, majestic mechanical wings. The Hero.
There seems to be something wrong, though. In the dim light, he can't quite tell. He walks closer to the mirror, slowly... Turns his head to one side, lifts a hand to his hairline.
It's a wig.
He hooks his fingers under it and pulls. It comes off slow, like it was glued to his scalp. His left hand rises to his forehead. His face peels off like a rubber mask. The wings clatter to the floor. He can feel the armour crinkling like tissue paper, falling away with a whisper.
Standing before the mirror is Sam Lowry as he was. Dark tie, suspenders, clean-shaven face with a bewildered expression.
The lights dim further. In the slow flash of red from outside, he sees himself change. A beard's grown wild on his face; he now wears jeans, a hoodie and a stained and muddied leather jacket.
The expression hasn't changed much.
The lights flicker, flashing on and off in random intervals -- first slow, then faster and faster, and every time it's a different Sam staring back at himself. Back and forth, back and forth. Faster and faster. Somewhere near the end there may even be a flash of the Hero. But once he awakens, he isn't sure.
-----------
November 1 - November 2
He's in the foyer of his mother's flat. It's dark. It's Christmas Eve.
He knows exactly what's going to happen once he steps into the bedroom.
He thinks he knows.
The set-up is there exactly as he remembers it: wisps of white fabric, waving gently in the breeze from an open window. Waving above a bed with pale pink satin sheets.
There's a figure dancing on the other side of the room, barely visible through the thin fabric, mysterious as a nymph.
He steps closer. But she doesn't notice him.
He takes a step or two around the bed. She dances away, in the other direction.
This is wrong.
He begins to chase her. He tears at the fabric which impedes his efforts, stumbling and tripping and rolling in waves of white chiffon. Somehow he disentangles himself and lunges across the bed, ripping the curtain of fabric on the other side apart --
There's a door there. He doesn't remember a door.
-----------
November 2 - November 3
There's a door. The white fabric waves peacefully, harmlessly, in the cold breeze. Silence is everywhere. She is nowhere to be seen.
There's a door.
He gets down off the bed, slowly, nothing in his ears but the sound of his own breathing.
He touches the door handle. It opens with a rush of wind and --
strips of flesh hung on the walls a depthless cavern how far does it go on strips of flesh hung like meat in a butcher shop somebody's knocking on the wall somebody's coming through the roof he's blind he can't see but he can feel and hear the bullets ripping through the air ratatatatatatatatatatat
-----------
November 3 - November 4
There's a door.
Sam steps down from the bed with no small amount of apprehension. He remembers what happened last time. He also knows he has to open it.
He touches the door handle. This time, it doesn't open until he pulls.
Inside is an exact mirror of the bedroom. Inside he sees... himself, standing at the edge of the bed, holding up a piece of paper. He can't see her... not clearly. But the suggestion of her is there through the white drapery, a flash of blonde hair, a silhouette. He hears the voices from far away, as though through a veil of water.
Sam -- other Sam -- climbs into bed, removing his coat. Sam feels a sudden surge of disgust, of hatred. He shouldn't have her. He doesn't deserve her. She's going to die. He charges forward, raising the gun in his hands. It fires with a thunderous bang.
-----------
November 5 - November 6
There's a door. But it's not quiet. Someone's humming.
Guess what song.
This time, everything is in slow motion. He climbs down off the bed. Reaches the door. Touches the handle. This time the door swings inward.
A beautiful beachfront scene faces him. A swaying palm tree, clear water, white sand. Maybe there's a figure in white on the beach. Maybe not.
He reaches out his right hand, fingers trembling.
It's just a poster. Just an old travel advertisement, yellowing at the edges.
With a scream, he tears it down.
-----------
November 6 - November 7
There's a door. Sam leaps off the bed, pulls the door open with violent urgency, and sees --
--himself. Looking right back at him.
"Bastard," each one says to the other. Both take a gun out of their coat pockets, both raise it to the other's forehead --
"SAM."
There's only one of him now. He turns.
She's there, on the bed.
-----------
November 7 - November 8
He is astounded, overjoyed. He is every one of himself that he's ever been.
"Sam." White-clad limbs and flowing blonde curls reach out toward him.
But he can't move.
She's getting farther away. Calling out for him. Reaching. Pleading.
But he can't fly to her. He doesn't have his wings.
-----------
November 8 - November 9
He has to try. She's getting farther and farther away from him. Soon she won't even be a speck on the horizon. He takes one small, halting step forward. Another. Still another. He can still hear her, but the force is too strong, he can feel the blood pounding in his veins like they're about to burst.
"Hey!" A hand grabs his shoulder, the force that's keeping him from moving releases and he whirls around to see -- her. The real her. Short hair, utilitarian clothes, bandage on her right hand.
"This is bullshit," she says.
-----------
November 9 - November 10
"Jill." He says it like a prayer. "Oh my God."
She doesn't speak. Just takes a drag on her cigarette.
"I'm so... Jill, I'm so sorry. Please, you've got to understand, I thought I could save you. I didn't mean... for any of it. If I could go back, I..." But he wouldn't, would he? Not really. "Oh God. I can't believe it's you."
Still nothing. She's looking at him. Just looking.
"Jill, please. Please say something. I'm sorry for everything, I'd take it all back if I could, I'd take everything back." He didn't want to, but he would. If it would only make things right again. If it could only put her to rest. "Please just tell me what I can do. What can I possibly do?"
She steps closer. He can smell her, almost. The smell of her, the smoke of her cigarette, the exhaust from her lorry, the dust of London, and under all of it, the sharp tang of blood. Her eyes, green as they ever were, look up into his.
"Make yourself useful."
Darkness.
He recognizes it immediately. The large, open room, the gaudy furniture, the pulsing red light from the billboard outside the window. It's his mother's flat.
The lights are dim, the windows dark. There's a sense of anticipation in the air -- the constant feeling that something is just about to happen, as though the world were on pause.
He catches his reflection in a large round mirror that he can't remember having seen before.
The reflection is an image he recognizes intimately, even though he's never seen it from the outside. Wild curls of hair, a tribal mask of silver-blue face paint, gleaming armour, majestic mechanical wings. The Hero.
There seems to be something wrong, though. In the dim light, he can't quite tell. He walks closer to the mirror, slowly... Turns his head to one side, lifts a hand to his hairline.
It's a wig.
He hooks his fingers under it and pulls. It comes off slow, like it was glued to his scalp. His left hand rises to his forehead. His face peels off like a rubber mask. The wings clatter to the floor. He can feel the armour crinkling like tissue paper, falling away with a whisper.
Standing before the mirror is Sam Lowry as he was. Dark tie, suspenders, clean-shaven face with a bewildered expression.
The lights dim further. In the slow flash of red from outside, he sees himself change. A beard's grown wild on his face; he now wears jeans, a hoodie and a stained and muddied leather jacket.
The expression hasn't changed much.
The lights flicker, flashing on and off in random intervals -- first slow, then faster and faster, and every time it's a different Sam staring back at himself. Back and forth, back and forth. Faster and faster. Somewhere near the end there may even be a flash of the Hero. But once he awakens, he isn't sure.
-----------
November 1 - November 2
He's in the foyer of his mother's flat. It's dark. It's Christmas Eve.
He knows exactly what's going to happen once he steps into the bedroom.
He thinks he knows.
The set-up is there exactly as he remembers it: wisps of white fabric, waving gently in the breeze from an open window. Waving above a bed with pale pink satin sheets.
There's a figure dancing on the other side of the room, barely visible through the thin fabric, mysterious as a nymph.
He steps closer. But she doesn't notice him.
He takes a step or two around the bed. She dances away, in the other direction.
This is wrong.
He begins to chase her. He tears at the fabric which impedes his efforts, stumbling and tripping and rolling in waves of white chiffon. Somehow he disentangles himself and lunges across the bed, ripping the curtain of fabric on the other side apart --
There's a door there. He doesn't remember a door.
-----------
November 2 - November 3
There's a door. The white fabric waves peacefully, harmlessly, in the cold breeze. Silence is everywhere. She is nowhere to be seen.
There's a door.
He gets down off the bed, slowly, nothing in his ears but the sound of his own breathing.
He touches the door handle. It opens with a rush of wind and --
strips of flesh hung on the walls a depthless cavern how far does it go on strips of flesh hung like meat in a butcher shop somebody's knocking on the wall somebody's coming through the roof he's blind he can't see but he can feel and hear the bullets ripping through the air ratatatatatatatatatatat
-----------
November 3 - November 4
There's a door.
Sam steps down from the bed with no small amount of apprehension. He remembers what happened last time. He also knows he has to open it.
He touches the door handle. This time, it doesn't open until he pulls.
Inside is an exact mirror of the bedroom. Inside he sees... himself, standing at the edge of the bed, holding up a piece of paper. He can't see her... not clearly. But the suggestion of her is there through the white drapery, a flash of blonde hair, a silhouette. He hears the voices from far away, as though through a veil of water.
Sam -- other Sam -- climbs into bed, removing his coat. Sam feels a sudden surge of disgust, of hatred. He shouldn't have her. He doesn't deserve her. She's going to die. He charges forward, raising the gun in his hands. It fires with a thunderous bang.
-----------
November 5 - November 6
There's a door. But it's not quiet. Someone's humming.
Guess what song.
This time, everything is in slow motion. He climbs down off the bed. Reaches the door. Touches the handle. This time the door swings inward.
A beautiful beachfront scene faces him. A swaying palm tree, clear water, white sand. Maybe there's a figure in white on the beach. Maybe not.
He reaches out his right hand, fingers trembling.
It's just a poster. Just an old travel advertisement, yellowing at the edges.
With a scream, he tears it down.
-----------
November 6 - November 7
There's a door. Sam leaps off the bed, pulls the door open with violent urgency, and sees --
--himself. Looking right back at him.
"Bastard," each one says to the other. Both take a gun out of their coat pockets, both raise it to the other's forehead --
"SAM."
There's only one of him now. He turns.
She's there, on the bed.
-----------
November 7 - November 8
He is astounded, overjoyed. He is every one of himself that he's ever been.
"Sam." White-clad limbs and flowing blonde curls reach out toward him.
But he can't move.
She's getting farther away. Calling out for him. Reaching. Pleading.
But he can't fly to her. He doesn't have his wings.
-----------
November 8 - November 9
He has to try. She's getting farther and farther away from him. Soon she won't even be a speck on the horizon. He takes one small, halting step forward. Another. Still another. He can still hear her, but the force is too strong, he can feel the blood pounding in his veins like they're about to burst.
"Hey!" A hand grabs his shoulder, the force that's keeping him from moving releases and he whirls around to see -- her. The real her. Short hair, utilitarian clothes, bandage on her right hand.
"This is bullshit," she says.
-----------
November 9 - November 10
"Jill." He says it like a prayer. "Oh my God."
She doesn't speak. Just takes a drag on her cigarette.
"I'm so... Jill, I'm so sorry. Please, you've got to understand, I thought I could save you. I didn't mean... for any of it. If I could go back, I..." But he wouldn't, would he? Not really. "Oh God. I can't believe it's you."
Still nothing. She's looking at him. Just looking.
"Jill, please. Please say something. I'm sorry for everything, I'd take it all back if I could, I'd take everything back." He didn't want to, but he would. If it would only make things right again. If it could only put her to rest. "Please just tell me what I can do. What can I possibly do?"
She steps closer. He can smell her, almost. The smell of her, the smoke of her cigarette, the exhaust from her lorry, the dust of London, and under all of it, the sharp tang of blood. Her eyes, green as they ever were, look up into his.
"Make yourself useful."
Darkness.