The Lines Between Awake And Dreaming

THE LINES BETWEEN AWAKE AND DREAMING

 BY DEBORAH DURKIN    

     I’m afraid to open my eyes. Where am I? It feels cold and strange. It’s hard to describe. Wherever I am it is assuredly dark. There’s no faint light gleaming through my closed lids. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is feeling uncomfortable and scared. Surrounded by metal and astringent smells.

     I have to open my eyes. It’s the only way to escape this feeling of dread. I peaked them apart. It took a moment to adjust my sight to the darkness. I know this place.  It’s the crawlspace under our house. What am I doing here? 

     A shadowy light comes from around the side of a concrete corner. I crawl, my hands and knees searching for smooth earth on the rocky dirt floor. The ceiling is very low. I continue toward the light coming through the haze. It comes from a window that’s below the ground and pulls the light from a dugout semi-circle on the outside. I think about the times I hide in that window well when people are looking for me.

      If I can get to the window maybe I can get it open and climb out. I’m small, I’ll fit through. I can’t remember, does that window open? Geez, it’s right there but seems to move away as I get near. I duck under thick threads of cobwebs, keeping my head low. I don’t want to bang my head on the wide beams that hold the house up. That would be worse than running face-first into a big hairy spider. My head is already aching.

     The area is large. It stretches underneath two big rooms of our house. I remember when my father broke through the old kitchen and living room walls, above this crawlspace, to start the addition. I jumped up and down on the sofa each time the sledgehammer hit the wall. I liked balancing on the beams, that are now over my head before he covered them with a floor.

     I get nearer to the window and am feeling a little relief. Even if it doesn’t open I can bang on it and call for help. There’s a much better chance of someone hearing me though the window than through the floor. I’m still utterly confused as to how or why I’m down here. 

    Wait! As I look toward the window I see a shadow form on the outside. Who is that? I search desperately with my eyes to make out the face. It’s not. Is It?  The window opens, maybe? I’m not sure. The figure is unfolding and is now on the inside. I’m at once shocked, amazed, and more than a little surprised. 

    Superman! Wow, Superman here in the crawlspace under my house. To rescue me, I wonder?

     He’s dressed in his blue leotard and red underpants, that have loops for his yellow belt. I notice his red cape matches his shoes. The red and yellow “S” patch on his shirt is like a shield for his chest. 

     He appears to be standing. I can see him from his black hair to boot covered feet. How is it he can stand? I think he’s standing. He begins moving toward me. Not walking but a low to the ground fly. Slow and easy. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s not smiling either. Is this really happening?

     I can’t be sure if the unusualness of this whole thing has me confused or if I really should be frightened. I’m paralyzed in space. The same feeling of dread I had before I opened my eyes in this environment has returned, and Superman is moving toward me. 

     My mouth won’t move. My voice has left me. I can’t say hello to Superman or ask if he came to help me or why I need his help. I’ve been in this crawlspace before, it’s not a dangerous place. Superman glides forward and something tells me to run, to keep away from him.

     I turn back the way I came and crawl as fast as I can. I raise up on my feet to save my knees. I try to move faster, but it’s awkward. I’m afraid my back will hit the beams. I’m so scared. I can’t stop to look behind. I’m heading back to where I started, and it’s moving away like the window did. Why is he following me? I see the opening. It’s so far away. I feel Superman near. I’m being pulled back. 

     I swear if I ever get out of here I will never come down to this basement again. Oh! I suddenly remember the basement. It’s attached to the crawlspace by that small opening, next to the basement stairs. All I need to do is get there. I can climb the cellar steps, open the cellar door and escape.

    Superman is above me now, pulling me up. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to go with him. I don’t trust this Superman. Struggling to get free, at last, I reach the passageway. I grab hold of the stone sides and pull myself through.

     I’ve left Superman behind and surprisingly find myself sitting in a big chair. My pants are wet. My mouth is full of cotton, and I’m crying.

     My mother is standing next to me. “Why are you crying? Are you hurting?” she asks. 

     “Superman,” I mumble, “Superman was trying to get me. He made me pee my pants.” 

     “Oh dear, don’t you remember the Dr. asking you who you wanted to dream about? You requested Superman.”

     She tries comforting me. “Don’t cry, it’s all over, Do you want to see your tooth? We’ll put it under the pillow tonight for the tooth fairy tonight.”

     Still sobbing I tell her, “Put it back.”

     Remembering this dream speaks of the ways the mind and body communicate between waking and dreaming. I was a little girl having my first bad tooth pulled. The dentist asked me who I wanted to dream about when he put me to sleep.

     I asked for Superman and was so excited that the doctor could fulfill this wish. When I was under the influence of the sweet-air and my body was being assaulted by the extraction my superhero’s turned to creepy villains. They sent me to somewhere I thought was safe and then took something from me. 

     The understanding this little girl had about the wish for a dream and the realities of the awake mind turned a sweet-air dream into a bad gas nightmare.