Anne’s Dreams (excerpt)

Anne let her eyelids close as the world of reality faded into the mysterious realm of the subconscious. It was in former that her tears existed, but how easy it was to escape into the latter in a mere blink of an eye! It made her think of those criminals sitting behind jail cells, of how they must long for an escape every day, of how they must wish their bodies could momentarily separate into molecules small enough to diffuse through thick jail walls. But they didn’t need to be a product of some physical miracle to escape, all they had to do was close their eyes, and for a while, liberation was at their fingertips! Indeed, it was this miraculous avenue of escape that Anne sought tonight. She hoped to recede into the deep corners of her identity and to fetch out all those significant pieces of her life, those fleeting moments of triumph she derived from occurrences that were capable of sparking epiphanies in her mind and her mind only! These particular moments were the ones that made her unique and precious, for it would be impossible for any other human being, without having experienced the specific set of circumstances of Anne’s life, to extract the same indescribable yet infinitely profound form of insight. Although with the limited vocabulary of an eleven year old Anne could never put these insights into the form of words, nor share them with anyone else, she knew that these were the instances that characterized the elements of her life worth living. Anne wished nothing but to see these elements come alive in a story as real as the nightmare she was living now.

Her flight from reality was mildly pleasant at first. She was sitting at the local park bench, purchasing apple juice from a friendly street vendor. Unfortunately for Anne, however, whatever hope she had of protecting herself within the confines of a pleasant dream lasted but moment, as she was powerless to stop the controversial and troublesome aspects of her existence from surreptitiously sneaking their way into her subconscious mind. With the blink of an eye, the apple juice transformed into a vial of poison. The park quickly morphed into a barren desert and the heat suddenly intensified sevenfold. She stared down at the cool bottle of liquid in her hands as it seduced her with the promise of temporary respite from the blistering heat. Before she knew it she was gorging down bottle after bottle. “More!” she demanded, as she crept up to the vendor, asking for another bottle. “Sir, please, pour me another glass I am thirsty.”

“Why child, this is poison,” he crackled, “why would you want to poison yourself? Drink a few more glasses and you’ll die!”

Anne, somehow comprehending his words in the midst of her inebriation, knew that she had already understood the gravity of his warning even before she asked for the first glass. She did not want to take it, but some raging thirst within her, some uncontrollable desperation, had already devoured a thousand glasses. To that desperation, reason was an excuse, and excuses, of course, were disposable. She snatched another glass from the man’s hands even before he could refuse and took giant gulps. She could feel the poison working its way through her body. She felt the liquid tricking down her esophagus, its virility burning through her intestines, permeating her organs, slowly and painfully undermining all that was supporting her physical existence. Shocks of sharp pain attacked her stomach; it was as if a snake had injected its deadly venom in her internal cavities. But she refused to surrender to the sharp pains in her stomach, and ignored all the physical cries of anguish her body let out, all except for the one that demanded her to quench her insatiable thirst. She was crawling now, and her arms were wrapped around the man’s legs, still hoping that he would answer her pitiful implorations.

Luckily, if luckily should even be the word here, Anne had the privilege of witnessing her own funeral. She also witnessed the lawsuit filed against the vendor, who was now wearing a doctor’s coat. The judge spoke, “Sir, how could you prescribe her such voluminous quantities of antidote? Were you not aware of its virulence? It’s toxic effects in large doses? Sir, you are a professionally licensed medical practitioner, why did you give her the vial?” The doctor was nervous. The audience awaited his response. Then finally, after a minute of silence, he quietly muttered, “She asked for it.”

As it was such, Anne had begged for her own poison, consciously inserting the agents of her own destruction into her body, seemingly contradicting the universal notion that every living creature fights for its own survival. Anne, overwhelmed by impulses not unalike the ones experienced by those on the verge of suicide, perceived that the only way of survival was through death. It was another twisted notion of escape, an impetus stronger than life itself. She harbored an inextricable motivation to escape not only reality, but also her dreams, and from that impulse there was no liberation.             

Ahh, but this was merely her first dream of the night, and as it so happens with the human brain, the first dream is almost always forgotten.   

Her second dream of the night took place at a circus. There, Anne found herself pushing and shoving among a giant crowd of boisterous circus goers. There are so many people here, the entire world must be at this stadium, she thought. A booming voice reverberated through the vast arena, “Welcome to the greatest show on Earth! Prepared to be dazzled! Prepared to be amazed! Prepare to see that which you cannot believe you are seeing!” The crowd let out a deafening cheer.

The first show was the performance of the freaks. These were strange people of all shapes and sizes. First came a five hundred pound woman dressed in nothing but a skimpy bathing suit. The crowd cheered and laughed. They threw french fries, hot dogs, packets of ketchup, whatever they could find. Next came a man, or rather, two men conjoined by the head. The crowd gazed with amazement as the men walked seamlessly across the stage, in a practiced zigzag formation. More cheering. Then came a flexible man covered in tattoos. The crowd gasped as he looped his feet behind his head, licked his elbows, and contorted his body into a dozen of impossible positions. 

Then the announcer exclaimed, “And now, for the finale of our show, we have saved for you the greatest freak of all.” He waited for the crowd to silence, enjoying the tension and anticipation hanging the air. He continued, “But first, patiently let me share with you a sliver of my insight, for through the lens of my perspective, I assure you the following show will only be more spectacular. I have been working in the circus for decades, and I have finally found the answer to the question that has plagued me ever since our circus’ inception: what does it mean to be a human and what does it mean to be a freak? Now, let me tell you, when the architect of the universe sculpted the soul of the human being, he was generous enough to bestow upon these creatures the gift of defining their own character. Humans beings were given the ability to formulate their own perception of the world, waiver between their own decisions, and synthesize novel possibilities stemming from their own imaginations. But one crucial ability that they ostensibly lacked, a gaping blank in their list of capabilities, was the ability to alter their own appearances. Physical appearance remained under the power of the inscrutable language of genes, and while humans could attempt to beautify and conceal, at the basis, they could not change what nature gave them without defying it. Soul upon soul who have trudged the grounds of Earth have wondered why we are devoid of the power to create that which holds so much influence in our lives, of which we are constantly judged by and granted undeserved discrimination from, in the form of both privilege and handicap. How great it would be if talented artists could paint themselves? If great writers could describe themselves and intelligent mathematicians could calculate the placement of their own features and curvature of their own cheeks?”

He paused, letting what he perceived to be a profoundly insightful speech sink into the audience’s heads. “Now, we are all human beings here and I am sure all of you know exactly what I am talking about, so to answer the second part of my question, what does it mean to be a freak?  I’m sure you may say, ‘why that’s simple, those people we just saw were freaks!’ But not so fast. Of course they may fit the casual characterization of a freak, but listen closely to my words and I am sure you will see that my special definition, coming from the perspective of an experienced circus old-timer, makes far more sense. Although there are those who have distorted physical appearances and strange talents, in the end there is only one type of freak that exists and can ever exist and that is the freak who is the inverse of a human being. Lucky for you all today we have someone who fits this very definition of freak. Although she is lacking in talent and thus incapable of actuating her own metamorphosis, she can become any creature you wish for her to be, so as long as you can create the image!  Don’t be afraid to shout out whatever you please because I assure you she has no thought of her own, no ability to formulate concepts and judgments, no control over her own decisions. What she has is the amazing ability to manipulate her own DNA! Now you see what I mean by the inverse of a human being? Audience, feast your eyes on a once in a lifetime spectacle, a freak who is certain to not disappoint, a miracle of creation…without further ado…welcome…ANNE!”

Anne gasped as she found herself naked in the center of the ring, with millions of eyes gazing down upon her. The spotlights blinded her momentarily before the crowd began to shout. Cow! Pig! Flying dragon! Three headed snake! And Anne felt herself uncontrollably morphing into every creature uttered by the circus goers. Giraffe! Monkey! Scapegoat! Retard! Thief! Slave! Victim of child abuse! Daughter of alcoholic! Victim of human trafficking! She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The crowd was only coming closer and closer…cornering her with their menacing retorts. Then she saw the announcer walk to her, holding a black leather whip-the very same leather whip her mother had used last night… “Faster! Faster,” the announcer shouted with each sting of the whip. Then he turned back to the crowd, “Tell me if any of you have ever seen something as pathetic as her! You can call her a coward, but she is incapable of processing what the word means in her empty head! This miserable monster is clearly not worthy to be part of the human race! Come on now, keep the comments pouring, it won’t be long until she tires out. That’s it, That’s it!”

And so, poor Anne lay helpless and exposed in the center of the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the sinister face of her mother, laughing, bottle of liquor in hand. Her mother began to throw pills at her, shouting, “SWALLOW! SWALLOW!” But her crackling was soon drowned out by the crowd, which let out a deafening cheer as they celebrated the capitulation of the most disgusting freak of them all.

Panting hard, Anne woke up. The dream had ended, but the nightmare, as always, was just beginning.