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Mar. 20th, 2006 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
progHad a subtly nasty nightmare last night. Were I one to write horror stories I would spin the basic premise into a story most terrible. As it is I feel the dream is wasted on me, so I'll just write about it.
There was a monster who stole things from people. He took the form of a friendly man, someone you might meet somewhere and get into an easy conversation about life with. During this conversation he would get you to talk about whatever it is you valued the most in your life.
You knew you'd been had when the fellow would reveal that he had been concealing a doll on his person, which would, upon exposure to air, burst into flames. As soon as this happened, whatever it is you treasured the most was now his, irrevocably his, and lost to you forever.
In my dream, the monster struck at a gathering of theater-goers. He drew the people who happened to be seated around him into his trap, warming them up with small talk and guiding them into the desire to talk about the things of theirs they loved the most. I remember there was a little boy who had been collecting coins his whole life, and Michael Stipe was there, admitting his sentimental attachment to a particular pair of Chuck Taylors. (? whatever) My dream's POV, while omniscient, was most sympathetic with the most interesting character there: an old man, past 80, who believed that he possessed immunity to all disease. Whatever finally killed him would have to try awful damn hard, he boasted, and in the meantime he squeezed as much out of life as he could. I, the dreamer inventing him, found myself admiring him greatly.
(There may have been women in the crowd too, but if so I can't remember any details about them.)
Eventually it was time to leave, and the group of new friends left together. But when they entered the lobby, one of them -- the little boy, I think -- shouted in dismay, because he had actually been carrying his treasure with him and it was now missing. The monster, laughing, took this as his cue to draw out his flaming doll, and everyone instantly knew what had happened. There was nothing they could do; the law could not help them. Each had forever lost their most precious thing.
What really breaks my heart is the epilogue. The old man, I think, worked at the theater, or perhaps lived there; anyway, he had reason to stick around the premises long after the other victims had left. He could not stop thinking about the incident, and how it might have affected them. The others had spoken of things, silly trinkets, and they ended up without them, but he spoke of the thing that served as his true vital force, the belief that kept him active every day. Could that have been stolen too?
These worries were exacerbated by others at the theater, who had witnessed the theft (perhaps even the monster himself, as he returned to seek more victims). If he paused to think about something, for example, they would sneer at him that surely Alzheimer's was setting in.
Slowly, and for the first time, mortal dread began to infuse everything he did. He was ever aware before of his advanced age, but turned that into a reason to assert his vitality that much more. Now, obsessed over what might have been taken from him, he just felt old.
The end.
There was a monster who stole things from people. He took the form of a friendly man, someone you might meet somewhere and get into an easy conversation about life with. During this conversation he would get you to talk about whatever it is you valued the most in your life.
You knew you'd been had when the fellow would reveal that he had been concealing a doll on his person, which would, upon exposure to air, burst into flames. As soon as this happened, whatever it is you treasured the most was now his, irrevocably his, and lost to you forever.
In my dream, the monster struck at a gathering of theater-goers. He drew the people who happened to be seated around him into his trap, warming them up with small talk and guiding them into the desire to talk about the things of theirs they loved the most. I remember there was a little boy who had been collecting coins his whole life, and Michael Stipe was there, admitting his sentimental attachment to a particular pair of Chuck Taylors. (? whatever) My dream's POV, while omniscient, was most sympathetic with the most interesting character there: an old man, past 80, who believed that he possessed immunity to all disease. Whatever finally killed him would have to try awful damn hard, he boasted, and in the meantime he squeezed as much out of life as he could. I, the dreamer inventing him, found myself admiring him greatly.
(There may have been women in the crowd too, but if so I can't remember any details about them.)
Eventually it was time to leave, and the group of new friends left together. But when they entered the lobby, one of them -- the little boy, I think -- shouted in dismay, because he had actually been carrying his treasure with him and it was now missing. The monster, laughing, took this as his cue to draw out his flaming doll, and everyone instantly knew what had happened. There was nothing they could do; the law could not help them. Each had forever lost their most precious thing.
What really breaks my heart is the epilogue. The old man, I think, worked at the theater, or perhaps lived there; anyway, he had reason to stick around the premises long after the other victims had left. He could not stop thinking about the incident, and how it might have affected them. The others had spoken of things, silly trinkets, and they ended up without them, but he spoke of the thing that served as his true vital force, the belief that kept him active every day. Could that have been stolen too?
These worries were exacerbated by others at the theater, who had witnessed the theft (perhaps even the monster himself, as he returned to seek more victims). If he paused to think about something, for example, they would sneer at him that surely Alzheimer's was setting in.
Slowly, and for the first time, mortal dread began to infuse everything he did. He was ever aware before of his advanced age, but turned that into a reason to assert his vitality that much more. Now, obsessed over what might have been taken from him, he just felt old.
The end.
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Date: 2006-03-20 05:51 pm (UTC)Often, dreams have a "plot" thread and an emotional soundtrack. I can see how that dream could be sad and terrifying.
You have interesting dreams.
Date: 2006-03-20 05:54 pm (UTC)Bizarre. I still hear it in my head.
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Date: 2006-03-20 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-20 07:54 pm (UTC)Btu seriously, very creepy. And jeez, you already did write a horror story! You totally gave me the willies, anyway. Shiver.