My Special Brand of Dream Violence

Personal project/short story

She's going to kill me and there's nothing I can do about it. She is tall, fit,
put-together. Glorious starched white shirt. Perfectly sculpted calves. I am 
small, frumpy, naive, weak. I am a subitem on her afternoon to-do list. I am 
thirty-two ounces of plain nonfat yogurt, and she is beyond bored.

But she doesn't know about my Wahl Color Pro 79300-400. The Wahl Color Pro is a
twenty-piece complete haircutting kit. Self-sharpening, high-carbon steel 
blades. Adjustable taper control. Eleven color-coded guard combs in sizes 
ranging from one inch to one-eighth of an inch.

No guards today, though. I want a close, clean cut. I run the naked blade over
each of her corneas, first the right one, then the left. I use a slow, steady,
upward motion, just like the manual says. The texture of her eyeballs
frustrates me. Gelatinous clear-brown gunk is caking up in the high-carbon
steel blades.

Done. The surfaces of her eyeballs are flat now. Well… flat enough. At any rate,
she can't see. She slide-falls to the floor, khaki skirt stretched taut as her 
butt hits the berber carpet. Feet knock together awkwardly. Off falls a black 
gucci pump and I realize that her calves aren't actually all that muscular. It 
was just the heels.


I've always had violent dreams, but in recent years my dream violence seems to 
be following a very consistent set of weird parameters, and it's creeping me out.
The violence is always carried out by me, in response to some external threat or
another, which I will collectively refer to as The Bad Man. These dreams go 
something like this:

The Bad Man is here, and he is emanating danger. Often it's nothing more than 
that. The Bad Man rarely says or does anything to incriminate himself. But in 
that special dream way, I just KNOW that he is evil, that he wants to get me. 
I know it more certainly than I've ever known anything. The danger is blatant 
and vivid.

Faced with this all-consuming terror, I react instantly and instinctively. 
I pour all of my rage and focus and strength into the task of protecting myself.
I remember a weapon that I have. (The weapon that I remember is almost always a 
weapon that I actually own in real life. Sometimes it's not a legit weapon. 
Sometimes it's an electric hair trimmer or other handy household item. It's 
usually something sharp.) I find said weapon and pick it up. This all happens 
in the space of a few seconds.

I attack The Bad Man with my weapon. It's a strange kind of attack, though. 
It reminds me of trimming fat from a chicken, or untangling a box of christmas 
lights, or drawing the outline for a painting. My movements are slow and 
meticulous. The Bad Man doesn't fight back, or does so very feebly. He doesn't 
yell. In some cases he is so silent and motionless that I might as well be 
mutilating a corpse.

I hack away methodically. The brutal attack becomes tedious drudgery. Fear and 
rage are overshadowed by disgust, stress, frustration, exhaustion. At some point
I finish. I can tell that I'm finished not because The Bad Man is dead or 
incapacitated. By this point the body has probably been still for a long time. 
I can tell that I'm finished because it just feels right. It feels finished. 
I wake up. There's residual stress and frustration, and some fear coming back. 
The strongest thing I feel is disgust. I feel nauseous.