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I keep having this extremely lucid dream lately. I wanted to post it in my other blog, but, I feel.. safer(?) posting it here. Anyway, here goes.

I seem to have turned it into a bit of a story..


I've aged rapidly overnight. When I awake, I find myself to be 72-years-old. The flesh that covers my bones is so white from lack of sun it's become diaphanous. All my organs are visible. My blackened kidneys, my lungs that are held in vices to limit my breathing. The many tubes that carry poisoned blood to my organs can be seen. Upon my nose rests a crimson butterfly whose wings spread out to cover my cheeks. Hidden inside the intricate pattern of her delicate wings is the face of a wolf. Every one of my troublesome joints have been replaced with ball joints; like from a doll. That's what I've become; a 72-year-old frail doll with a cane so I may attempt to walk.

Around my neck rests a necklace of twenty one spoons. Twenty are snapped in half. One remains in tact. With every strenuous action I make, it deforms and becomes closer to breaking. I realize I must be careful with my final spoon and use it wisely. When it's gone, I will be too.

When I manage to crawl out of my bed and lurch to the table for breakfast, a bowl full of pills and water appears before me. This is what I must eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner just so I may function like a normal human being. I begin shoveling the rainbow of medications into my system. It will be twenty minutes before I digest this meal.

I notice that after finishing this breakfast, my already disfigured hands have warped themselves even more. My fingers are crooked and swan necked. The bones twist in strange angles. These are not my hands. These are the hands of a monster, something that hides under the bed of a child and scares them when their parents leave the room. No human could ever possess such malformed hands.

Twenty minutes drag by. It's time to leave the house. I walk out slowly to the bus, taking my time so I don't further aggravate my sore knees, hips and ankles. I approach the bus stop and wait patiently for one to arrive. The place I'm going is only a fifteen minute walk, but it is not one I can do in my current shape. My spoon is close to breaking, and I can't risk losing it. At this time, it's all I have.

The bus finally arrives. It's packed. I shuffle on, show my bus pass, and scan the place for a seat. There isn't one available. I figure I could ask someone taking up one of the courtesy seats if I could borrow it for three stops. Only one person looks safe to ask. A soft featured woman, with seemingly caring eyes.

"May I please take your seat, ma'am?" my voice is laced with embarrassment for having to ask. "My spoons about to break, I don't think I'll last much longer if I have to stand."

"This is reserved for people with disabilities," she states. "You look young. I hardly see how you could need this seat."

"You don't understand," I whimper as my legs begin to falter. "I'm quite sick. My legs are sore and swollen. I'm really not in much shape to even be out today. Please, ma'am, it'll only be for a while."

"But you don't look sick. If you don't look sick, you aren't sick. Stop being lazy and stand for the few stops."

Sore and dejected I go and lean against the window. Why can't people empathize with my situation. Why don't they see that I'm sick? Don't they know that one can look healthy, but be experiencing pain? Would they be more sympathetic to someone with cancer?

When I finally step off the bus, I step directly into my friends house. The entire group is there, laughing and joking. They're full of energy. I'm envious. My trip to get here has robbed my of any energy I previously had. I find a chair to sit in, and try to re-acquire my zest.

They notice I'm not like them.

They notice my the vice around my lungs has tightened, that my kidneys are blacker, that my ball joints have inflamed, that my hands are mutated. They notice that I'm seventy-two.

The wolf in the butterfly has become more vicious and snarls at them. I take a pill to calm it down.

My friends smile at me and say they'll see me when I'm eighteen again. Who knows when that will be..

As they leave, I age to seventy-three. I mourn the temporary death of my younger self as my final spoon breaks. The world spins and fades to black.

No one wants a sick friend.
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  1. wolfwhisper's Avatar
    I am 18, and I alread know how you feel. Sorry that your dream plagues you, but you could make a bunch of short stories and add this to them and get them published.