Nightmares

I'm back to dreaming a lot but only in little vignettes so that in the morning it seems both overwhelming and exhausting to write it all down.  At least once there will be some dramatic nightmare scene.  Last night had a double feature.

Scene: a two-storey rambler, warm summer day.  Big trees, the slightly long left-to-grow-a-bit grass in the front yard sways in a warm breeze.  There are women, about thirty, in track suits and blazers with jeans, swarming through the house.  A real estate agent winds her way through them, winning best-dressed in patent leather heels, tasteful hose, pencil skirt, silk blouse, Hermes scarf, A-line coiffure; but under the careful makeup and facelift she is easily surfing the upper age limit in the house.

Everyone is writing a number on their own index card.

A woman, about 50, jeans, bright patterned blouse, dyed strawberry blond hair, parks and approaches the house.  "Lindsay," the real estate agent calls, and "Lindsay" echoes and murmurs through the crowd of women.  Lindsay hands the real estate agent a note, and before anyone else can reach her, she backs away, murmuring something about just having one thing to do, not wanting to stay.  People nearest have tears in their eyes but they nod, accepting she would rather be alone right now.

We realize she has just gotten a divorce and is in foreclosure.  Lindsay walks away, past her car, down the street.  A woman in the front room has collected all the index cards and is doing math.  Triumphantly she raises her head, "The total of all donations comes to $145,000; we did it!  We can save the house, girls!"  There is a general cheer, interrupted by the sound of a freight train wail.  People look up through the window.  People standing on the long grass on the lawn turn.

"That's funny," says the donation coordinator.  "I don't remember there being a train track out here."  The train whistler is insistent; then the squeal of brakes.  The train doesn't stop instantly of course.  It is too heavy.  Instead the brakes cause it to very painstakingly slow down and down and down and down until it stops a quarter mile down the track.

There is general commotion at the railroad crossing where a pickup truck and sedan had been waiting on the other side for the train to pass.  Every pair of eyes in the house is now trained on the spectacle a block and a half away.

You the observer know before the women in the house can allow themselves to. 

They should have stopped Lindsay instead of just letting her walk away.  They should have told her. 

People are carrying a stretcher.  In the distance the sound of sirens. There is someone on the stretcher.

The camera pans forward until you are looking right at the woman on the stretcher.  She seems remarkably intact, she is talking.  She shakes her head, gives a half smile. Her hand goes to the waistband of her pants.  She shifts as the paramedic approaches and her hand comes away red, blood seeps now from under her hips.  She shakes her head and says something more, shifts, and her torso separates slightly from her legs, blood gushes onto the carrying mat.

End scene

Scene two:
A global catastrophe has resulted in widespread starvation.  The US, particularly the west coast, was hit a little later.  People are just beginning to run out of food, but the animal situation is terrible.  People are on the move and livestock and pets aren't practical or portable.  I am traveling, always at night, trying to get to a family retreat that has reserves.  I have a tiny grey kitten with me. 

I pull up to a neighborhood grocery store and break in through the front glass door.  I see something move in the shadows and almost die of terror.  A stick figure shadow tows another small shadowy creature directly up the side of a wall; then I see there are ladder rungs attached that lead to the attic.  I hear dogs barking. 

I feel like I should follow - it seems like an invitation - but possibly one from a horror film.  It could be a trap.  I know the owner of the store in passing, a robust jovial woman named Josephine.  She hardly matches the skinny silent shade that skittered upstairs.  I am paralyzed with fear and then a small curly-haired dog leaps towards me.  "Where's Josephine?" I whisper, more to bring down the tension than to begin an investigation. 

The dog is skittish and strange, alternately lunging aggressively but soundlessly and then prancing and playful.  I decide the dog needs to be walked and pooped so I attach a lead.  There is another older slow dog I leave behind.  We head for the shop door.  Outside, inky blackness.  In the doorway is the small grey kitten.  It isn't far to the door but seems to take a very long time.  The dog on the lead is slowing down.  By the time we reach the door I have to pick her up and carry her.

I realize this dog is very tired, starving.  I think of the food in my car.  Should I feed her?  I only have enough to last this journey for myself and the kitten - who admittedly eats fairly little.  This dog would need a lot. Just tonight.  And then what?  I keep walking, trying to convince myself I'll find some other food for her.  There is a Fred Meyer just a few blocks away (instantly the image of swarming looters and danger; I ignore it).  There is a storage shed attached to the house; I will search in there.

The dog becomes limp.  She closes her eyes.  I keep walking.  She is dying, right there in my arms and I can feel it.  It is my fault.  It is too late.