Dream about W

I found this while snooping around the usenet archives; it's about five years old. I had forgotten I wrote this. I still like it, which for me is rare.

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I have just woken up from a dream. In this dream the
sharp things are out to get me, again. They are shaped
like a slinky, an inverted spiral coil of sliver-thin metal,
spinning like a tornado with the almost subsonic
shiiiiiing of a deli meat slicer operating a hundred
yards away. It chases me down a hall, and I close the
door of a closet behind me. The sharp thing saws
through the wooden door, and then it starts to saw
through me. There is no pain -- sharp thing is very,
very sharp -- and almost no resistance as it, still
spinning, slides through my skin, into the muscle
of my flailing hands, and starts to grind on bone....


I have just woken up from this dream because my
son Eric is crying. Eric will soon be three years old.
I come and sit on his bedside, talking to him calmly.
It takes a few minutes before he stops crying, and
a few more minutes before I can get any sense out
of him. I hold him and ask him questions.


"Did you dream?"


"Yes."


"What did you dream about?"


"I dreamed about W." He always says this; it's like
a little ritual we go through. It can't have any meaning.


"What else did you dream about?"


"Birds."


"Birds?"


"Bad birds were eating my hair."


My son has bad dreams too. I feel very guilty about
this. I talk to him about the bad birds; I tell him he
should smack them if they try to eat his hair again.
SMACK! I say, smacking the covers. SMACK! he
echoes, convinced. Eric settles down and soon is
breathing heavily.


I return to bed. It is 3:30 AM. I'd like somebody to
tell me that I can SMACK the sharp things if they
try to eat my hair. Nobody does.


My son has bad dreams too.


- * -


It is morning now. I make Eric's cereal. Eric is not
happy this morning.


"Did you sleep okay?"


"Yes."


"Did you dream again?"


"Yes."


"About what?"


"About W." He looks so troubled. Kids who aren't
yet 3 shouldn't look troubled.


"Anything else?"


"No." Eric does not want his cereal. I don't want
mine either.


- * -


I'm on the road to Galveston now, crossing the
causeway. The big hospital on the island is one
of my clients, and I have to go to a meeting. The
drive is long and good for thinking.


Why do we dream? I ask. There's nobody to ask
but the crows lined up on the telephone poles,
watching me whiz past, but I ask anyway. What's
the point of dreams that scare or worry? is there
some evolutionary advantage to bad dreams? or
are they a necessary side effect to having good
dreams?


Go away, W. don't invade my boy's head. what's
the point? who are you, anyway?


Up ahead a barge sounds a blast as it crosses
under the bridge. The crows scatter off the telephone
lines, little black forms in stark contrast against a
bright white background.


For a moment, the sky is full of W.


The car almost goes off the road.


- * -


Eric is asleep now, and I will be soon. When I go into
the dreamtime, I may meet the sharp things. I don't
particularly care; I'm not interested in running from them
any more.


When I hit the dreamtime I plan on hitting the ground
running. I've got to find the weak place in the walls.
Somewhere there's a crack that will let me into the void
between dreaming minds, the collective unconsciousness
that washes around us. From there I've got to feel my way
to the places where my son sleeps.


I've got a pot of hate in my belly, and god help any
rubbery feathered W forms I find swarming my Eric,
cawing or chittering in some strange tongue.


Get out of my son's head, you damned demon birds.