Kiana

I dreamt every bizarre dream in the world, in one night. I can’t remember the last time I had dreams so vivid and terrifying as these. I can’t reconcile myself to the idea that these scenarios of utter gore came from my own mind, or were influenced by me. Let me let go of these images here.

At a hospital, an elderly couple hyperventilates. Not long after, they start heaving—heavily, laboriously, as if battling death. I look around. There is no nurse or attendant in sight. I stand terrified.

I snap out of fear and terror and realize that nurses and other hospital attendants are now bustling about the hospital corridors, attending to the elderly couple. I can see that they don’t have any medical equipment that could help the couple. Feeling like I have training and experience in saving lives and other emergency situations, I step in and interrupt them. They stop in their tracks, gaping at me.

I find myself frantically running at an unfamiliar pace, in a place altogether strange and unknown. Apparently, there’s a blackout in this area, but I can see a pink neon sign on the roof of a house, although I can’t clearly make out what it says. I’ve been running for quite some time, and I can see that some people are running on this same track, in the same direction, as me. I wondered why they haven’t looked at me, or spoken to me. Can’t they see me? Am I invisible to them?

A gnarly group of men—specifically, skater boys—are gathered around a skate park’s corner, giving someone directions. I pass by, eavesdrop, and interrupt them as I skedaddle on my own skateboard, giving the lost person my own set of instructions. They turn around, shocked, and shout, “Who do you think you are, pretentious bitch! TBH you’re not really a good skater!”

Now my grandmother and I are walking home when, out of the blue, a group of really aggressive, foul-sounding men start to surround us. They sneer at us both, but most especially at me. I am baffled by this sudden aggression. They’re getting real close to us, my grandmother and I. My instincts kicking in, I order my grandma to “just go” and assure her “I’ll take care of this.” I discover that the men were offended by my arrogance, the way I interrupted their “procedures” at the hospital, the way I eavesdropped on those skaters. I give them a look that lets them know I’m not sorry. They each give me a stern warning that I’ll be repaid, in full, for what I’ve done.

My tooth, as though it were an enamel-lined box, starts to break at the front. It looks like a wall that’s been punched in, thereby creating a small hole. It feels gritty, weird, and gross. I push a finger through it, taking out what look like shards of glass. Really they’re tiny shards of tooth. There’s an ant slowly chewing away at the insides of my tooth, I find. I reach inside the small hole in my tooth, I reach inside and touch the ant, and as I reach inside and touch it, I decide to kill it by crushing it. Now I’m left with a half-tooth with a hole in its surface, where anyone can see through to the flesh inside.

My dad, whom I have not seen in a very long time, seems to have been cuffed by the policemen. He has a concerned, scared look in his eyes as he says, shakily, “Where do we go now, Kiana? What do we do?” I reach out to him, take hold of his left hand and, even though he was handcuffed a moment before, turn his palms upward to face the sky. I touch his left wrist lightly, the lightest I’ve touched anyone, with my pointer finger and said, “Hey…Remember.” I was trying to conjure something in him.

My tongue, or a part of my tongue, appears to have been carved out of another body, carved out as though it’s part of an intricate puzzle. I notice this when the flesh—soft, warm, raw— falls out of my mouth. I can taste blood; I spit. There, I find myself thinking, I’m holding my flesh, my tongue, a part of me, myself. I remember the sacred communion, the body of Christ. I am my own body of Christ. I put the puzzle piece-shaped chunk of flesh right back where it belongs. ♦