No use trying to sleep now. I just awoke from a dream so horrible that I fumbled the light on and sat up in my bed at six in the morning with one hand on my face trying to contain the images in my head.
Why did this come to me now?
I was at a pool party with several faces. Some of them I knew, some of them I had never seen before in my life, but it felt familiar. An ex-girlfriend was seated at a small table on the other side of the pool, away from me. She chatted with friends and laughed. She had styled her hair to match that of her friend’s do, and she had done a poor job of it.
Music was playing over the speakers hidden about the place, under the control of an invisible disc jockey inside the monstrous mansion of a house that loomed behind me.
There was a walkway to my right that traveled between the side of the house and a steep hill blocked off by a tall fence. The walkway met up with the large, circular driveway in front, where all the party guests had parked their cars and shuffled their way back to the now bustling banquet at the poolside.
Cut to after the party, where such a fine setting had deteriorated into what I recognized as the aftermath of a teenager’s riotous feast of drinking and sex while the parents were away. Chocolate milk, condoms, and various garments were strewn about and spilled everywhere. I picked up a cup and took a swig, but there was nothing in it. I felt a bit sour about that.
I made my way back outside to the pool, and to my surprise, I saw that at least a dozen people had survived the event, and were now sitting around the edge of the pool telling stories. The cerulean glow on their faces made the scene quite peaceful in the clear, cool night air. I began to feel better about things.
A girl interrupted one of the storytellers, saying, “This isn’t right,” and stood up, left the party and disappeared down the walkway. The party-goers turned to each other and began hushed conversations amongst themselves. This lasted only a moment, as the girl soon returned. She had been wearing dark clothes. I couldn’t tell the exact color from the shimmering blue cast everywhere. One thing I was certain of is that she had long, rust-colored hair - a tangle of browns, reds, and oranges - that fell into her eyes.
She stood, awkwardly leaning forward, with her hands pressed against the area below her belly, just above the waist. She looked around at all of us at the party. Then she took her hands away, and a dark fluid spilled from her. In the dim light, it seemed brown, and I was confused as to what I was seeing. As more of the dark fluid kept coming out, I realized it was blood. It covered her belly and her face and hands, and some of it spilled onto the partygoers sitting at the poolside beneath her. I uttered the word, “No,” but I did not move. I was petrified. I watched, along with the others, as she pulled her belly open from the gash she had made in herself with whatever sharp object. Her guts oozed out and slopped onto the poolside, entrails falling into the water, which was now clouded with blood. The party-goers started screaming, and I was compelled to get out of there.
I remember looking back as I fled the party and seeing the red-haired girl. Her face was not one of hurt or anger, but of tragedy. She looked at us with longing, like she was trying to communicate. Seeing our reaction to her grim plea only made her sadness worse. Her eyes were nearly closed, with tears running down her cheeks. The corners of her mouth were drawn down over a quivering chin and clenched teeth. This was not a look of severe physical pain, but of deep, personal suffering.
This was the face that I held in my mind when I awoke just moments ago.
