I’m on some sort of vacation with my mum. It’s some sort of, how would I say, Nordic kind of thing, sauna-like place in the mountains and shite. A giant building, very … noble almost, in a pompous and Germanic style, for lack of better words. Like a real classy big hotel with a touch of “come here to rest your soul from the toxicity of the city”. It’s a very very large hall.
There is the guy leading us through there. It all stinks like chlor, like in a swimming place, to disinfect people’s piss, cause that’s what it is for, aye. I had talked to the guy on the telephone before. He’s my age. I hate my mother who’s there with me, but who else would come. I attempt to stick to the guy and have a little male banter talk. I remark “Well that’s an impressive place. Stinks like a morgue too, not bad.” I imagine to say it with a tone of feigned disrespect, to convey to him that I find it so cool that I can’t possibly honestly tell him how cool it is, because it would be cringeworthy, so I turn it into a playful insult instead.
He, though, this asswipe. He says “Stop your pretentious arrogant boorishness already!” and puts his chin up, like one of those spiritual man-bitches who thinks that a “dirty word” will infect him somehow. One of those holier-than-thou scrawny New-Age nerds.
And I realize he feels in power, rightly so. We already payed, aye. And my mother’s gonna give me shite if I fuck up. I realize it’s now those two bitches against me, the real bitch and the man-bitch.
It’s a dream though, aye? In a dream you do what you feel like. Fuck it, aye? He is still leading us into this noble establishment, having made clear that I will not be welcome if I don’t speak like an enlightened eunuch. And I realize he has me by my balls, as my mother will give me hell if I ruin this. And because it’s a really cool place I want to be at. His message is clear, aye: “That’s just your ego, dude, and I’m a super non-judgmental enligthened person and won’t sink to your level.”
I seethe with rage. And then I’m like “What the fuck you fucker!” and I push him with two hands. No need to actually hurt him. All that’s needed is the gesture: “Fuck you and your fancy establishment ‘ere.” And I realize I have disappointed my bitch of a mother. It’s not that I really cared … but despite her being a bitch, I’m still dependent on her. Can’t flee her. Will have to take her bitching and her bullshit. No way out.
Except, there is. I grab my bags, run into the little New-Age-Nordic town. Sit at a bus stop. Looking around, feeling dizzy from the heat.
Some very hot Gypsy bitch comes and sits beside me, along with her midget friend. She’s got a phone at her ear. Telephoning. And to her telephone, she says “Hang on a second” in Gypsy language (that I understand because it’s a dream). And then to me she says, in the dismissive tone of a hot bitch who knows men eat out of her hands: “A coin please.”
She expects and assumes my help. Again, I become angry. And I’m like “Fuck you, you fucking cunt”, but she, like any real bitch, is a psychopath who isn’t moved by those words. She just keeps nagging and nagging and nagging, with a straight face. She says something to the power of shaming me, saying “How can you talk like that to me” (non-verbal: I’m a hot bitch and you want to fuck me dude, so do as I say). I flip a bird at her. And then I realize I don’t have my eye on my baggage. Ths is probably a trick to distract me from her and her midget stealing from me. I grab my bags and ogle these idiots with suspicion.
And suddenly I’m in a gutter, underneath the city. And some beast attacks me. And I make some move to defend myself. But it’s a scripted move. A predefined movement. It’s not who I really am. I am fixed in the animation. So I think “Fuck it, I wanna be myself” and deactivate the script. Just to realize that the monster has slashed open my guts as well as the hand I used to protect my guts. And there I break down, with my slahed open bloody fist, slashed open at the arteries just beneath the joint between forearm and hand. It’s swollen up and hardly looks human anymore, unmoving. And beneath that slashed open hand, my bleeding guts. Everything is blood. And I scream. And screaming fucking hurts, because my gut is torn open. And I face the age-old conflict (in my world, anyway): Scream, and make the pain worse, or keep silent and die anyway.
But for some strange reason, sitting there in that gutter with my gut torn open and screaming … feels therapeutic. Like it’s something I’ve been waiting to do for a long time … to ignore the pain and scream. And now I can almost do it.
And I think of whether my mother will hear me and save me. But not because I love my mother or even like her. No. It’s a pragmatic thought. A cold psychopathic emotionless thought of “I don’t want to die. I’d rather have this bitch that I hate save me than die.”
But then I realize I am not sure whether I’d rather die there, killed by some monstrosity, instead of having to even see that whore again. At least dying in a pool of blood is honest … whereas living with that hag is like being sucked empty emotionally.
And then I wake up.