Dream
This is a description of a dream I had one night while I was at university. I guess it must be the most incredible dream I have ever had, because no other dream has ever prompted me to immediately write it down upon waking. I fear that I’ve not done it justice; and I don’t know now whether my recollections are recollections of the dream itself, or of this text. It was all a long time ago now.
One thing I do know for absolutely sure, is that this was no nightmare. Which, if you read it, you might find odd. But I know it was a beautiful scene.
Anyway, here it is.
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It was a large room, the ballroom, I imagined, of some grand New York hotel. Decorated in pleasing shades of cream, with chocolate brown lining, and amply supplied with foliage in the form of ferns and miniature trees. One corner sported a pool, complete with lilies and a fake waterfall. there was a stage at the front of the room, and a myriad of doorways in all four walls. The most noticeable of these was the large set of double doors opposite the stage; these, I presumed, led to the hotel lobby. The room was amply lit by a number of impressively large and expensive looking chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The whole scene had the air about it of a film set, everything was bright and shiny, in glorious, saturated Technicolor.
That night, the room was being used as a restaurant or dining room; maybe there was some kind of private function being held. Whatever it was, I was not meant to be there. I had neither received an invitation nor made a reservation, but nonetheless, I was there, in a dinner jacket to which I was definitely unaccustomed. No-one seemed to be questioning my presence, and for some reason I decided not to reveal myself as an 'impostor'. I just sat down in an unoccupied place, and observed my surroundings.
It was not long before I saw him. Across the room our eyes met, in the manner of two strangers at a party. He looked away with complete indifference, as if I meant nothing to him, and he nothing to me. I, however, sat in sudden shocked horror. That man was going to die; I knew it, and he knew it.
No. Perhaps horror is not the correct word. More, it was a realisation of an absolute; it was right that he was going to die; it was fundamentally correct; it was meant to happen. It is just the way in which we humans are brought up; we are taught that death is horrible. That evening, I learned that nothing is further from the truth.
I looked back to where he was sitting, patiently waiting for the waiters to serve him his starter. He was a fairly nondescript fellow, dressed, as all the men present were, in formal dinner dress. He was of average height, and of an average build too; his hair was respectably short, and he was clean shaven. Had we been in Hollywood, I would have imagined him as some the second assistant to the producer of some fairly uninspired film; as we were in New York, I suppose he may have been a banker of some sort. But that is all speculation; what is fact is that the only remarkable feature about this man was his impending death.
It happened before the waiters had a chance to serve him his first course. A man entered through the large double doors opposite the stage; I can honestly say that I have no idea what he was wearing. I had eyes only for the scythe he was holding easily in his right hand.
It was a fearsome implement; it glistened in the glow from the chandeliers, and I instinctively knew that it was sharp. Sharper than anything could possibly be. It came from a reality other than my own, and it was in my space and time for but a fleeting moment. I was here for that moment, I observed it, and in doing so, I feel that I made it mine, forever.
Death, (for want of a better name) walked across the room towards the man who was to die. He did not stalk, and his heels did not click on the polished floor; I was struck by the thought that he was remarkably similar to his, I shall use the word 'victim', although it is not the correct one. They were both entirely unremarkable, except for one thing; they were inexorably linked by the scythe.
The man who was to die stood up in recognition of death. He knew what was to happen; he was resigned to a fate which maybe he also knew of. That again is speculation, and we shall not know until we pass beyond. The scythe swung once, easily, and came away without a single drop of blood on its blade. It was too sharp to be soiled.
Time slowed down for me, and everything happened in slow motion. The man who was to die was dead; his head was missing, and I do not know what happened to it. My eyes were fixed upon his body as it slowly collapsed to the ground.
I saw that the man had not been human, at least not anatomically. His neck formed a perfect cup, and was not cluttered by flesh, vertebrae, or a spinal cord. He contained only blood, a rich red, deep and somehow regal; it was saturated with colour, and it had some profound meaning for me which I am still struggling to understand. It spilled slowly over the rim of his severed neck as he fell, and the whole scene was beautiful, incredibly, indescribably beautiful.
I do not know the reaction of the other guests, or of the hotel management, or of the police force, or of anyone. The next thing I knew, I was leaving the hotel by the main entrance, going out into the cold wet dark. I had a long raincoat which covered my jacket, and whipped round my knees in the wind.
One thing I do know for absolutely sure, is that this was no nightmare. Which, if you read it, you might find odd. But I know it was a beautiful scene.
Anyway, here it is.
---------------------------------------------------
It was a large room, the ballroom, I imagined, of some grand New York hotel. Decorated in pleasing shades of cream, with chocolate brown lining, and amply supplied with foliage in the form of ferns and miniature trees. One corner sported a pool, complete with lilies and a fake waterfall. there was a stage at the front of the room, and a myriad of doorways in all four walls. The most noticeable of these was the large set of double doors opposite the stage; these, I presumed, led to the hotel lobby. The room was amply lit by a number of impressively large and expensive looking chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The whole scene had the air about it of a film set, everything was bright and shiny, in glorious, saturated Technicolor.
That night, the room was being used as a restaurant or dining room; maybe there was some kind of private function being held. Whatever it was, I was not meant to be there. I had neither received an invitation nor made a reservation, but nonetheless, I was there, in a dinner jacket to which I was definitely unaccustomed. No-one seemed to be questioning my presence, and for some reason I decided not to reveal myself as an 'impostor'. I just sat down in an unoccupied place, and observed my surroundings.
It was not long before I saw him. Across the room our eyes met, in the manner of two strangers at a party. He looked away with complete indifference, as if I meant nothing to him, and he nothing to me. I, however, sat in sudden shocked horror. That man was going to die; I knew it, and he knew it.
No. Perhaps horror is not the correct word. More, it was a realisation of an absolute; it was right that he was going to die; it was fundamentally correct; it was meant to happen. It is just the way in which we humans are brought up; we are taught that death is horrible. That evening, I learned that nothing is further from the truth.
I looked back to where he was sitting, patiently waiting for the waiters to serve him his starter. He was a fairly nondescript fellow, dressed, as all the men present were, in formal dinner dress. He was of average height, and of an average build too; his hair was respectably short, and he was clean shaven. Had we been in Hollywood, I would have imagined him as some the second assistant to the producer of some fairly uninspired film; as we were in New York, I suppose he may have been a banker of some sort. But that is all speculation; what is fact is that the only remarkable feature about this man was his impending death.
It happened before the waiters had a chance to serve him his first course. A man entered through the large double doors opposite the stage; I can honestly say that I have no idea what he was wearing. I had eyes only for the scythe he was holding easily in his right hand.
It was a fearsome implement; it glistened in the glow from the chandeliers, and I instinctively knew that it was sharp. Sharper than anything could possibly be. It came from a reality other than my own, and it was in my space and time for but a fleeting moment. I was here for that moment, I observed it, and in doing so, I feel that I made it mine, forever.
Death, (for want of a better name) walked across the room towards the man who was to die. He did not stalk, and his heels did not click on the polished floor; I was struck by the thought that he was remarkably similar to his, I shall use the word 'victim', although it is not the correct one. They were both entirely unremarkable, except for one thing; they were inexorably linked by the scythe.
The man who was to die stood up in recognition of death. He knew what was to happen; he was resigned to a fate which maybe he also knew of. That again is speculation, and we shall not know until we pass beyond. The scythe swung once, easily, and came away without a single drop of blood on its blade. It was too sharp to be soiled.
Time slowed down for me, and everything happened in slow motion. The man who was to die was dead; his head was missing, and I do not know what happened to it. My eyes were fixed upon his body as it slowly collapsed to the ground.
I saw that the man had not been human, at least not anatomically. His neck formed a perfect cup, and was not cluttered by flesh, vertebrae, or a spinal cord. He contained only blood, a rich red, deep and somehow regal; it was saturated with colour, and it had some profound meaning for me which I am still struggling to understand. It spilled slowly over the rim of his severed neck as he fell, and the whole scene was beautiful, incredibly, indescribably beautiful.
I do not know the reaction of the other guests, or of the hotel management, or of the police force, or of anyone. The next thing I knew, I was leaving the hotel by the main entrance, going out into the cold wet dark. I had a long raincoat which covered my jacket, and whipped round my knees in the wind.
posted by Tony @ 22:40
1 Comments:
At 9:57 pm,
M said…
Have you got a copy of "The Chainsaw" a story that you wrote in your late teens? If not I think I have , you did seem to be preoccupied with death and the macabre. May be you should take up a new career as a short story writer.You are quite good.
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