Dream

I arise to find myself at a grand dining room table. But this mahogany, stained table covered in enough dust to question how long it's gone unused, doubles as a conference work surface. In the middle, lay a shiny, silver platter and utop, a mound of lime green grapes, which appear to be freshly chilled as if they had just been taken out of a freezer because they still have a frost on them. I can’t help but only see them as invitations to be crunched down on. Around me, three other students sit, all buttoned up in deep sea blue uniform jackets with blinding white polos under and metallic pins that signal a different letter of the alphabet; my pin reads “B.” The contrast between us and our surroundings glares like a deer in headlights. The room is dim, only lit by tall, foot-high candles scattered across the walls. There are none at the table. We are all the same—young men with Bibles perched in front of us like dinner, our faces glazed as if we were preparing for a fight with Vaseline, and our hair slicked back (which astonishes me considering my texture is not of the same quality as my constituents and remains as unruly as a schoolboy banished to the dean’s office). But, this is not a school, although it has the ominous, intimidating aura of one. And I certainly am not at the age where I need a formal education anymore. However, before I can process the scene in front of me, the gentleman to the right of me struggles reading the prose presented to us. There is a new man who appears at the head of the table that is now looking on, with a face that resembles the love child of Nosferatu and Jacques Brel, dressed like a sergeant general and adorned in the alphabetic metals that we are not wearing. He is grimacing with delight. I obviously assume that this is the beginning of a bad horror film and that I have been kidnapped and initiated into a cult, but the Bible that my fellow kidnappee treks through for our listening pleasure gives me hope that somehow I’ll be able to manipulate my captor into my freedom using the good word. While his words drown out my attempt to remain calm and level-headed at this disorientating reality, a command demands the attention of the audience and the old, mid-century paintings on the wall as well. 

“Again…” our instructor’s voice trails following the immediate impact of the first syllable. 

It must suck to be that guy, my mind wanders after he continues, to be the one who starts off this satanic journey. At least, we’re not actually down there with him, which means there’s still hope. The two faces in front of me, deeply entranced by his every word, let me know that I need to stop daydreaming about getting out until the opportunity presents itself. 

“To human is to air—to err…?” my illiterate partner asks. His jet black nail polish gently shivers against the table. I don’t remember that in the Bible. 

“Again…” 

When I glance over to see what he is reading, his long dark black hair suddenly becomes as unmanageable as mine, spiky and dry with a large splatter of blue on the front right side where it's parted. It covers the pages. 

“God! I- I can’t take it anymore!” Holy shit. Is he quitting? I’m not eating dead human carcasses after Hannibal Lecturer decides to maim him for speaking out of turn. I have to draw my line somewhere. But it is none of my business. From the moment the ensuing discussion begins, I crack open my Bible in search of my favorite scripture—Psalms 27. As I flip through, the characters dance along the page, first changing order, then language and finally, shape and form all together. Last time I checked, I was not dyslexic but also last time I checked, I was free from this nightmare. A thought scurries across my brain like the mouse that just hurried away with a fallen grape seed—our captor keeps this place immaculate. But I cannot remember who I was before being trapped here. 

“I’m leaving!” our blue-haired friend announces before storming towards the dark corner where I assume there is an exit. I have no thoughts, other than there’s no way he left. 

The grapes appear to have a deep, blood red color now, almost black and the spread is significantly smaller than before. We are assigned to turn to the book of Goliath, whose song reads of everlasting love, forever missing from his soul:

O that thou is my brother, that sucked on the breasts of my mother!

as I should find myself with thee, I would kiss thee; yea I should not be despised.

I lead thee and to the house of my mother, who instructs me: I would cause thee to drink the spiced wine of the juice of my (mango/apple). 

His left hand wraps around my neck, and his right hand should embrace me.

I charge you, O sons of Philistine, that ye settle down and rest in love, that he pleases, until it is no more, as is my circumstance…

It feels vaguely familiar, but I cannot place where this deja vu feeling is elicited from. My life is on the line. My fear-producing co-workers toil in silent, nervous agony, shaking ever so slightly from the booming voice of our enslaver, who now informs us of a break—it is lunchtime.

The room changes to become a true dining hall, with seven or eight more students suddenly entering the brighter area, filled with wilting shrubbery alongside the walls. I gloss over those surrounding me, even the girl singing in French, with a somber tone. I can see the paintings more clearly now, and they depict famous portraits slightly altered in color scheme—they all share fuschia and lavender accents. Following The Scream painting etched completely in shades of purple, I finally see my escape—a door. Outside, a familiar light strikes me comfortably, as it is my backyard back home and glints a lively and verdant green. The kudzu that enshrouds the proud pine winks at me, teasing me with its close touch. I see my target. Walking towards the door proves to be another trial, as the portal to my freedom steps away with each of my passing steps. 

As suddenly as I witness my exit, I am sat at a new table similarly staged to the original, but barely off the ground where my classmates anxiously await their sandwiches. I am served turkey and provolone and we all receive them all on croissants. We never eat, however, the sandwiches take a backseat to the hours-long, revolving door of people entering and exiting the room as we patiently watch on. We are not allowed to eat if all guests are not seated at the table. The final entrant arrives flanked with two other members of this secret society, and they remove the dish of red grapes and replace them with the original green grapes, now dipped in a sugar syrup and hardened to become crystallized. There’s an eerie sense that this ceremony is coming to a close shortly. 

Our captor flashes a single spoon, a rusty orange-brown that looks like it used to be a different color, but I cannot figure out what that would have been. The others giggle like the school kids we are dressed like.

“He’s ready!” a young man appears from a dark corridor. His appearance is striking—classically tall, dark and handsome. 

“He’s not ready…” another argues. She was singing in French earlier, but has no hint of an accent now. 

It was me that was the lesson the entire time. They all grin with exasperated smiles—this is their only form of entertainment. 

He offers me a handkerchief, and I have to polish this spoon. Slowly, I attempt and realize the crude feels like it has been cemented on for centuries. He takes the spoon from me and shows me the proper technique. Precisely on the edge, he begins to carve out the platinum gray with his right thumbnail through the napkin. Once he is completed, the class marvels at his incredible ability and laughs in unison. They remark sarcastically about this moment. What the hell is going on? My reflection mocks me as he holds the spoon up to my crest-fallen face. 

“We know who you are.” 

He picks up a dark camera, the flashlight and lens comically enormous. They all whisper in hushed tones, making sure that I do not hear. 

“Picture time!” his sing-songy voice goes up a pitch for the first time.

They gather around with their platter of grapes and it’s dessert, although I’m starved for real food. They assign me the plate, and I walk to what feels like my final resting place, a chair in the center of the room. No more tables in sight—everyone is on their feet. They nod as I take my first bite. The realization sweeps over my entire body in jarring motions.

I’m in hell.