Dear Dream Self: Irrational Fears

Dear dream self,

Chances are that if I am dreaming, I am having a nightmare, and a vivid one at that.  I’ve lost count of the times in which I’ve been chased by zombies, demonic creatures, and good ol’ variations of horrifying humanity.  This terrifying choice of nighttime entertainment for my REM cycling usually goes as you would expect, with a lot of screaming, crying, and running that eventually carries me back to my reality in my darkened room, but my daytime concerns managed to assimilate into my dreamscape in a very interesting way two nights ago.

Earlier that day I found that I had left my deodorant at my parent’s house.  It’s not like I had plans to run a marathon or anything, but the masking of stinky armpit odors is a comfort that I have grown used to seeing as I sweat like a man with his bits in a vise, often with minimal amounts of provocation.  Seriously, there’s a reason I only ever wore white shirts to basketball and lacrosse practice, more often than not with an extra tank top layer of protection so no friendships would be lost to the accidental exposure to my moisture soaked back.

But back to the point before I embarrass myself anymore than I already have: two nights ago my dream decided to mash up my love of zombie stories with my fear of being unable to fight the stink, and as the world unraveled around me and man ate man, I found myself in the middle of the looters ransacking the aisles of Walmart.  Was I grabbing all the food I could carry?  Or maybe grabbing some of the hunting weaponry they have along the back wall?  No, I was in the deodorant section, unable to decide which scent I wanted to be the last to grace my pits before I surrendered to a future in which bodily smells will be the norm.  I didn’t just grab the first thing I could find either.  Oh no; I took my time, taking the caps off all of the selections to make sure I did not leave disappointed.

This might be a stupid thing to concern myself with, so let me give you an actual irrational fear of mine that connects my true fear of going blind to the possibility of this apocalyptic landscape: If I survive the initial waves of zombies when Hell is unleashed on the world, which I do have a small chance of doing if I don’t get in my own way seeing as my boyfriend is very capable of fighting for our survival, I know how I will die.  Well, not specifically, but I know I will die because of my eyes.

Picture this (AKA a journal within a journal!):

Day 1: As I sit at my drawing table sketching out another dog, the news breaks into the regularly scheduled broadcast with word that the dead are coming back to life, going after the flesh of the living.

Day 5: The nightmares have started. I wake up not knowing what surrounds me in the dark, the shadows coming alive like the corpses of the fallen.

Day 9: I have run out of contact solution and make the fateful decision to rely on my glasses from here on out.

Day 17: We did our best to ration, but we were not prepared with an adequate amount of food to remain barricaded in our house for a lengthy period of time.  We’re going to vote on what to do next.

Day 18: I pulled the short straw among my family to run to the gas station down the hill and see if anything remains on the shelves. Kyle has volunteered to come with me.  I think he doesn’t believe I can handle myself.  I can’t blame him.

(Different handwriting, marked with an ungodly, but appropriate, amount of tear stains in the ink): I couldn’t save her.  We made it to the gas station just fine, and broke apart to get in and get out as quickly as possible.  I lost sight of her as she made her way to the deodorant, and I turned around the corner to the jars of peanut butter… I should have known better.  As I registered the faint hint of shuffling moving its way closer to the aisles, a piercing scream that was far more masculine than any girl should have (Lauren was always self-conscious of her scream, as she should have been) broke the silence like a jackhammer.

I ran to Lauren and grabbed her hand before that thing got a firm grasp on her wrist, and we ran for the door, taking a right in the direction of home, running straight into a wall of the dead.  I don’t know where they all came from, or how they knew where we were, but they did.  Before I could even think to act Lauren was ripped from my grasp, and I saw her fall to the earth, glasses skipping across the concrete and under the feet of the throng as she lost elevation alongside them.  I reached for her, but I was not alone in doing so.  I tried to distinguish myself by screaming her name, but she looked around confused, not sure which hand to focus on.  She reached out for my hand, but the one she found was not mine.  And then she was gone.

Yep.  That is how my eyes will kill me.

Until next time,
Lauren H.
Follow @BewareOfTrees

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