I know I’d previously said that dreaming of exactly what really happened that night in Uncle Bob’s truck was the worst kind of nightmare. But I was wrong, because these new nightmares I’ve been having the past few days are far worse. I can’t get rid of these maddening dreams.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye there’s the rub.
It doesn’t matter what time I fall asleep, whether I stay up late or go to bed really early -- it always starts the same -- hot, heavy and frisky, then the blowjob, then Sarah’s father shows up all of a sudden.
But it ends differently each time.
One time he’s standing there and he starts to fall apart. Chunks of his face start dropping off in bloodless pieces, like some sort of animated 3-D puzzle, until there’s nothing in front of me but a pile of his pieces all quivering on the ground like some strange new flavor of Jello.
Another time, his eyeballs start bleeding, then his nose and blood starts gushing out of his mouth and ears. I stand there in front of him, unable to move as these rivers of blood quickly rise up around both of us.
Yet another time he’s staring at me with that hurt look in his eyes then starts sweating profusely. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he starts melting. His flesh starts crawling down the sides of his face like giant beads of sweat or tear-drops, until his head caves back in on itself, and he melts like some Dairy Queen cone that has been sitting in the sun.
This last time -- the thing that woke me just a few minutes ago -- he starts aging in front of me. His hair starts going grey, like some sort of mad time-lapse photography, then his skin starts to crease, wrinkle, and sag. In less than a minute he’s standing in front of me like a goddamn zombie, his flesh all dried out, completely devoid of color and cracked, and I can’t look at him. Instead, I look down into the car where Sarah is, and I see her zombie face staring back at me, my cum dripping down the side of her face from a huge crack in her cheek.
“Peeeeeter,” Sarah says, her voice like the whisper of wind through crusty dried leaves, “I want you in my mouth again.” And when she moves her tongue out to lick her lips, a sad pathetic echo of the way she used to do so when she was trying to turn me on, her tongue falls out of her mouth and lands with a sickeningly loud slap onto her lap like some piece of thick raw meat landing on a cutting board.
It was the slap of the meat that broke me out of my sleep a few minutes ago.
I jumped out of bed and started looking around the room, convinced that somewhere in the room, somewhere just out of sight, I’d find Sarah’s severed tongue. It took several minutes before I was able to convince myself that it was all just a terrible dream.
I was at about that time when I bolted for the bathroom where I puked my fucking guts up.
It’s been tough, too, since I’ve hardly eaten anything this week -- can barely get anything down.
These dreams are driving me fucking nuts.