I woke up at 4:03 AM this morning. SCREAMING one long and monotonous yelp until my breath ran out. My heart was beating. That was one real fucking dream.
I was living in my old apartment – the 3rd floor of an old house. No roommate, but a cute, and unfortunately straight, twenty-something guy lived below me. Two girls, each servers at the Green Mille, and chronic pot-heads, lived on the first floor. The house was on 31st and James – a block off the lake and a block away from all the wonders uptown offers.
I had two entrances. The primary had you enter the house’s front door, proceed up the stairs to the second floor where my “front door” was. Behind which you found another flight of stairs up to my apartment on the 3rd floor.
The second entrance was found in the back yard. A long, winding staircase had been built and enclosed in recent years to abide by the city’s fire code requiring two exits. I never used the entrance because of the hassle of walking to the back of the house, the migit-sized door opening into the kitchen, and I needed extra storage space – which the stairs provided quite nicely.
It was a summer day and I arrived home in the afternoon to find that the door leading up to my 3rd floor apartment had been busted in – the lock broken. I looked at the cute guy’s door, also on the 2nd floor, and his door too had been broken into. At that moment, he appeared at his door, befuddled. I asked him what happened. He said only that nothing had been taken – just that the lock had been broken.
The two of us went up to my apartment and found that there too, nothing was missing – just the lock broken.
We began walking down to the hardware store to purchase new locks. This doesn’t really make sense to me because I was renting at the time and I never did any labor – I would have called the landlord, and the police – but I did neither. It may have been that I wanted an excuse to spend time with the cute guy downstairs.
We purchased some heavy-duty locks and brought them back to the house, where said neighbor installed them in a very butch manner. He had a nice screwdriver that fit perfectly.
After the locks were installed, we strolled down the street for something – not sure what. Probably wasn’t important. Regardless, we returned shortly after to find that our newly installed locks were broken. Nobody was in the house, and nothing was missing.
The girls on the first floor weren’t home. That or they were too stoned to answer the door.
Cute guy and I decided to go back to the hardware store and get even better locks. This time we called the police, who we met back at the house when we were installing the second set of locks. The police seemed concerned, and talked to us about general safety precautions and showed us how to use the locks – telling us that we had made wise choices in our lock purchases.
We all left the premises again, and a third time, said-neighbor and I returned home. And guess what. The locks were broken. Again, nothing missing. This happened repeatedly throughout the day. Each time cute neighbor and I would purchase new, better locks. And each time, they would be broken shortly after.
Finally it began to get dark. We returned home again to find our locks broken. We couldn’t believe it. We surmised that whomever was breaking them must be looking for us because otherwise they would have stolen something when they broke in. Seemed to make sense to me, but the reality of that theory was terribly frightening. Who could want to get me? Or us?
We were both checking out my apartment to see if the coast was clear. We were in my living room at the front window, when we heard something outside. We looked out and there were hands reaching up from the 2nd story window. We took the glass windows out, broke them, and began stabbing at the hands with the broken shards of glass when one of the hands grabbed a hold of me and pulled me down. And that’s when I woke up. Screaming.
I heard my roommate crawl out of bed, shut his door, and go back to bed.
The definition of insanity is performing the same act over and over again, hoping for a different result. It never comes, but you keep trying. Does this dream just mean that I’m insane? And perhaps that my insanity will someday be the end of me?