writing practice


I was in a giant warehouse. All around me was



Inside of me:

1.) Hands with long fingernails squeezing unforgivingly my cartoon heart, big and bloody, deep red and pounding, pulpitating violently with a loud beat.

Action: drowning.

2.) Black. Deep. This color demonic. So thick it is humanized. It becomes an object. When you look at it, you weep miserably.

3.) A tentacled monster tightly suffocating my intestines like a snake. Ouch. It’s purple, blue and aphyxiating me.

Only comparable to the feeling that hounds me when I see a KKK costume or hear something about BDSM. There is confusion and misapprehension of the cause, of the effect;

being on a totally different plane, coming from a different solar system. The essence of these things is so thick when I think about them that I can’t breathe. I can’t understand.

I can’t breathe. I can’t understand. I could only feel:

The incomprehensible feeling of the lining right beneath your skin being shattered like hard glass, caused by the realization of being irreverably trapped;

panic, crisis, escape. I need to escape but there is no way. I am being eaten! Help me!

I panicked more. I wrestled more. Not only internally, but externally, for I was trapped in a giant sea of raw meat. I panicked. Panicked as I had never panicked before, because I knew someone was keeping me here, torturing me. I thought of the Jews in concentration camps and shuddered; this is what it was like.

The meat hurt. It burned and pricked and ate at you. And you knew that there was someone keeping you in there because of a special type of evil. Torture for unbelievable reason; for the sake of torture, for the sake of death and ego.

I glanced around, knowing that there were men in charge of this, watching me and laughing. My heart was rotating steadily like a pinwheel, as it was being squeezed and crushed by the horror that enveloped my entire body. I was drowning, I was trapped, and I was going to die because men are keeping me hostage and abusing every faculty I own. I am being crushed. I am not surviving, and yet panic keeps me alive and begs me to escape. Escape, because your friends are in here, too. They are trapped. Your husband is trapped. Help yourself and get out!

I do. I ran away from the red terror that once enveloped me, and threw myself into a hotel lobby. We were running because we were being chased. We knew the evil men wanted us back, wanted to twist us in their fingers again and break us and crush us because they were evil.

The “safe hotel” I had begged the man at the service desk for was no refuge; I knew they would find me again, and I would be tortured. This was my greatest fear. I did not want to die. How does anyone humanly bear this type of suffering? To be subjected to painful torture and treated less than human for the pleasure of someone else


-end dream



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