In the dream, I was in this dark-lit restaurant I liked to hang out in, writing and watching people. I suddenly took notice of this waitress (seems like Angela, in retrospect) in the dining room, standing by the drink bar to the left of the counter. Though attractive, she seemed distant, even drugged, operating as if she were in some zombie-like, somnambulistic state. Instantly I recalled having seen her before, unable at first to recall from where but then realizing that I had met her while I was in the altered state of consciousness typical of an abduction episode. The altered state had endured, however, as her and I had sat down in a booth in this very restaurant and had spoken with one another on our experiences. It was there that she had given me a box, inside of which there were computer discs and what she described as pictures, which I had taken to be illustrations of her encounters.
Having finally remembered, I looked behind the counter, where I met eyes with a fat man. My sense was that he was of high authority, and I searched myself wondering if he played any role in the abduction. That, I believe, is when the fuzzy memory came to me.
In some hotel room, I am lying on the bed as an argument is going on between the girl, the fat man and I. Due to something said or done in that room, I was sure there was another girl involved, though not necessarily in a sexual way.
Now, sensing suspicion in his gaze as I remembered this, I casually look away from the fat man, doing my best to seem calm and casual while trying to hide my face in a way that would appear incidental. The last thing I desired was for him to know that I was onto something, that I had gained awareness of my secret relations with this girl.
Upon leaving the restaurant and going home, I went to the downstairs computer, where I thought I had put the box that the girl had given me when we met up in the restaurant, shortly before the memories disappeared behind a wall of amnesia. The box was indeed there, seemingly confirming my memory. Inside the box were the discs as well as some tiny red folders or envelopes within which there were pictures, as she had mentioned. Rather than illustrations from her encounters, however, they were instead nudie pictures of her.
It bothered me that I had forgotten all about this, that I had not gotten back to her or so much as opened the box. There was also evidence that someone had opened the box and gone through it, and I feared that it had been my parents.
I left the family room in the back of the house, where the computer was, for the dining room, where I spoke with a man who seemed to be an authority in some way. Unlike the fat man, he was on my side, however. In some way I knew this man was me, despite the fact that I talked with him as if he was some separate entity standing by support beam in the dining room.
As we are talking, the fat man walks into the dining room from the direction of the living room, where I had been at the computer. Suddenly, I become frightened at the prospect of the fat man seeing me talking to my secret twin, but he is suddenly and simply not there anymore. Now my only hope was that the fat man would not recognize me as he passed through.
He did, and began to talk to me, specifically regarding some reference to a claim I had evidently made to him in the hotel room about being in the Army. As I put on my Army boots, I told him that it was rough for me. There were some things, top secret things, that I could not talk about, so I preferred keeping altogether silent about the matter.
Suddenly, the dream shifts scenes and I find myself in entirely different surroundings. I am uncertain as to whether this was a scene directly following the last or a memory within the dream akin to the one of the hotel room. Regardless, I am either in the back of a bus, a train car or van without windows, sitting in a seat typical of those vehicles. Directly behind me, in the very last seat, there was a girl sitting alone.
As we began talking, it occurred to me that there was already some secret bond between us, that there was more going on between us than I was aware of. She was aware of it, too, and she was keeping that secret from me. It suddenly struck me that this may very well be “the other girl involved” that had been spoken of in that hazy scene in the hotel room.
Regardless, I found her incredibly likable and fascinating, so was eager to comply when she suggested we exchange emails and requested mine directly. At the same time, however, the fact that she had an email surprised and confused me to no end, as if I felt she could not belong to the world in which that would be possible.
I found myself asking her if she was an abductee, to which she responded, “Not exactly.” Then I asked her if she was a hybrid, though I caught the same kind of ambiguity from her in response. I don’t believe she answered. Finally, I just openly asked her who or what she was. She explained that she wanted to tell me but she couldn’t, or that she was certain I would be incapable of understanding it.
It was at that moment that I finally let her entire face sink in. Even in retrospect, she seems so real. She wore a black winter’s hat over her blond hair, and she had very deep, sweet, blue eyes. They were also very sad, and I felt certain that they were sad for me.
It was the sixth of July, 2002 when I had the dream with Angela. Her and I were having sex on a bed pushed into the back corner of a dark and otherwise vacant room. Halfway through I got up and exited through the door on the wall opposite the bed to do something I could only recall as being of intellectual importance. Upon my return, I found her waiting, legs spread, and we continued.
In the midst of our romping it came to my attention that her face was shimmering and shape-shifting between her own familiar facial features and that of Trinity from the Matrix movies, complete with her black, wrap-around glasses.
Looking to the left, I saw a door I had not noticed before. Light poured in from the open doorway, and there were people walking in and out of the door casually, though not apparently noticing us in the process. The only one who noticed us was looking directly at me from where he sat in a chair to the side of the bed facing me, the door to his back.
This was a guy I had not seen in some two years. Though I believe him and I spoke in the dream, I cannot recall so much as the gist of what the subject might have been. Little time was available after waking up to write down any details, either, as I soon realized I was late for work.
After driving there and clocking in, I went in the kitchen and started making sandwiches on line at our fast food factory. A short time passed before Angela arrived, clocked in and put on the headset for drive-thru. Then she broke routine by walking into the back kitchen, which made me feel guilty about the sex dream, because I’m goofy that way. When I turned around to look at her she was just standing some distance behind me, looking dead at me. Then she pointed to me, and right before abruptly departing for the front she said my name, announced, “I had a strange dream about you,” and grinned a wide grin.
Instantly I got that same feeling I get every time the world I live in casually contradicts consensus reality. After all, we had never before discussed or mentioned dreams to one another, and I had never recalled having had a dream about her before. Though the specifics of our dreams differed, as I was to learn later, both involved her and I on a bed, having sex at the climax of the dream.
I awoke just before noon to write down another dream. My sister had told me that this guy had been calling me, leaving weird messages on my answering machine. As I listen to one message that initially sounds like dead air, I play it back again, hearing two things said in a barely-audible demonic kind of whisper reminiscent of alleged EVP recordings. Playing it back over and over, I finally make it out.
“Creep,” it rasps, and then, after a brief pause, adds in swift speech: “You don’t know incest.”
Even in the dream I was perplexed by the message, as I have never experienced incest nor had I found reason to ever proclaim that I had. Despite these facts, for some reason I could only suspect that the voice-bearer had read something I had posted in my online e-zine. Dark as those writings may be, however, I did not recall having ever had that subject or theme manifest itself.
Though it could perhaps be interpreted as an extremely exaggerated way of my unconscious accusing me of not nurturing my family ties, it could also simply signify something taboo, and accusing me of not knowing it could suggest I do not know what it is like to live with a certain stigma. I toyed with possible interpretations, but the accusation of the voice in the dream still perplexed me.
After writing the dream down I went back to sleep, only to awaken later with another dream to document. From a short distance away I had watched as Angela, clad in her work uniform, ranted to someone about her parents, and I believe she mentioned one of her brothers as well. She said it all as if she was standing up for herself. These were words of passion. Never had she defended herself in real life — certainly never like that.
Afterwards I wondered if the demonic-sounding voice of the person that was “trying to get through to me” in the first dream was some part of Angela, and if the answering machine suggested telepathy. Perhaps the second part of the dream was the message translated as dream material. The fact that I saw her speaking to someone else implies that the message was for me, but not to me.
I run to the door of the house and look out, perhaps walking out a bit on the nearby porch, but sure not to stray very far. From the sky to the left of me I can hear the lethal winds thrashing violently in the distance.
To the right, passed the driveway and a short distance ahead, I can see a truck or van parked in my parent’s turn-around. In the driver’s seat is who I think is my cousin Jamie’s husband, though if she is with him I cannot see her. Whoever the blond-haired guy is, we get into a short discussion about the coming cyclone, which mostly involved him telling me about it.
Later on, inside the house, my mother was big on my sisters and I getting our blankets and putting them on our bunk beds. I was wary of her motives.
“Why?” I asked her. “What are we supposed to do — wake up cuddling with it?” I added that if it was just there as decorative memorabilia, it was fine.
I go into the apparently communal bedroom, where the bunk beds are positioned parallel to one another, set against opposing walls. Taking two shoelaces, I then tie them together and proceed to tie each of the ends to the two bunk beds, connecting them.
Later, I was in a little shed where there was food and drink stored in coolers and jugs, desperately looking for a place to pee. Then my youngest sister and her husband come in, however, both looking for a water. I tell them to just go and have sex, and my sister looks at me as if sex is a foreign concept, as if they are both innocent in that sense. I just laugh.
Then I’m back in the room, nearby the bunk beds. Placed up against a wall there is a desk, a small one, with two chairs on either side. Angela is suddenly there, and she sits in one chair as I take the other. I pull out a cigarette and we get drawn into conversation. I begin to tell her how not all the aliens are mean, and I really wanted to tell her about The Teacher, or as I call her, Nimi. Her eyes light up at my mention of it and she says, “Yeah, you were going to tell me about that.” Then I woke up.
Angela and I are at the fast food restaurant where we both work. She got a radio as a gift but her father wouldn’t let her keep it, so she has it with her in her book bag. She is not feeling well, lying down with her eyes closed. She tells me she sees these entities that have been plaguing her, and they are ugly.
Angela’s father is Danny, the abusive father of my childhood friend, Jimmy, and in time he arrives. I am in a more spacious version of the kitchen and it is dark. I lift a fryer basket that had been left in the vat of unheated oil and find a”Christian fish” in the basket, dripping with cool oil. Then I see Danny approaching. He looks just like Brad Garrett, the older brother off that television show, Everybody Lives Raymond.
It is just him and I in the dark, vacant kitchen. He says that maybe he should be the one to take Angela home later, since he would be around anyway. He says it in such a way that he knows it will terrify me. For some reason I hand a pair of scissors to him, holding the handles, and he grabs the blades. We both pause for a moment, holding either end, looking at one another, as if sizing each other up. He says, in a creepy kind of way, “You’ve got to be careful, or someone will cut you.”
I woke up in this large attic with all these people. Through the planks of wood at my feet I can see, in the room below, that there are scattered pieces from some torn-up notebook littered across the floor, presumably from the book bag I also saw nearby, and I wondered if it was my own.
Asking people around me where I was, what happened, I was told that I had been taken away and was now in a different country. I asked if I could call home. They said no. One girl comes up to me and says that the woman in charge will be lenient on me so long as I’m cautious. She was maybe some relation to the woman or someone on her good side.
So I get to go outside a bit. I see Angela and try to get her attention. Maybe she can give my parents the message that I’m here. She doesn’t see me, though, and disappears into this greenhouse. I follow after her and then, looking down, I am shocked to find a steak knife in my hand. I held it, hiding it beneath my sleeve.
I was suddenly very mad. Storming into another room, knife now drawn, I confront the woman in charge. People in the room were shocked, seeing this as an insanely stupid act, but I couldn’t play nice with her anymore, not in the face of this injustice.
“Hey!” I screamed as I approached her. “Hey! Why exactly did you take me? Kidnapping is illegal, you know.”
“This is where you came from,” she said to me, “but not where (or when?) we met. I told you I wanted you for my project.”
Indeed, I suddenly remembered her from a long time ago — she had wanted me to be part of a project, to do something for her. I could not remember what, however, at least upon awakening. Then the dream, oh so conveniently, was over.