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Journal Entry – March 14, 2017

TRIGGER WARNING – blood

I just woke up; my throat so dry that I couldn’t scream though my body was trying… Sweat pouring off my body, I’m trying to force my breathing to slow… I’m so tired; my eyes are burning, but my latest nightmare still chases me, so I know I can’t close my eyes, or it will overtake me again…

I dreamt that I had finally become a Marine, and they had deployed me for six months to the gods only know where. I had just arrived home and was so excited to see my wife.

Yes, those of you who know me did read that correctly, my wife. In this dream, I was presenting as fully female and married to a woman.

I went to our favorite place, an out-of-the-way bookshop, located in an old cabin in the woods. Beautiful building, high gables, rough cut exposed beams, the whole nine yards…

As I strolled into the building, the clerk motioned with her thumb, indicating I should go in a back room. Walking past the shelves in the small movie section, I notice they actually carry VHS tapes, in addition to the DVDs that line the shelves. It strikes me as odd. Nevertheless, I continue past them into the back room. As soon as I enter, the door slams shut behind me and the lock clicks…

Again, odd, but I have other things on my mind as my wife steps out from between two bookshelves. She is beautiful, curvy, dirty blonde hair pulled into pigtail braids that fall just below shoulder length. I run to her to give her a hug, but she stops me: a hand pressed firmly against my sternum.

“What did you bring with you?” she asks. I baffled by the question, but I pull out my knife. It’s a black five-inch tactical-style blade. The sharp edge glistens as it springs open, and I hand it to her, handle first. She looks it over, appraising, as I watch, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

“I brought a knife as well,” she states matter-of-fact, and places my now-closed knife in her left pocket before producing a box cutter from her right pocket. Four clicks echo in the small room as the razor sharp edge is produced, and she places it against her wrist.

“Baby, no!” I beg, and I reach out to stop her. She just laughs.

“You think I brought this for me?” That cold laugh rings out again, chilling me to the bone. “Oh, baby, have you got it wrong.” She turns the blade on me. I quickly back away and move behind a queen-sized bed in the corner: unassuming, it doesn’t really seem to fit in here amongst the bookshelves, but a beautiful handmade quilt adorns it anyways.

I get the strange feeling that there is someone else in the room. Pulling a bottle of perfume from my pocket, I bend down and spray several shots along the underside of the bed. A commotion comes from under the bed, and a large stuffed giraffe, the kind you might win at a carnival, is pushed out towards my feet, and a large man crawls out, cussing, and rubbing his eyes. He’s about six foot tall, brown hair, dressed in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a camo hat.

“You see this?” He motions with a small, revolving handgun that fits neatly in his palm. “It’s a 45.” I reach for it, and he laughs, stepping closer, and snatching his hand out of my reach. “Don’t worry about that little ol’ thing. You should be worried about my 1911.” My eyes search his hip and land on a chrome glint peeking around his left side. I step back into the corner, as my wife steps forward and hands him the box cutter. The blade glints as it comes down, scoring my chest. I manage to catch his wrist as I scream.

“Go ahead and scream,” my wife laughs, again that cold laugh. “No one cares.” My hand drops in shock, and the man tries to cut me again, but I turn, catching the blade on my right shoulder. Vaulting over the bed, I make for the door and kick it open. A paper sign, flutters to the ground, as I run out, it reads: “Horror Movie Screening”.

“No one would care,” I thought as I headed for the door, but the clerk blocked me, laughing maniacally.

“There’s no where to run!” she screamed, but I turned and ran up the ladder, as blood poured from my arm. Reaching the loft filled with bookshelves, I searched for an escape. Climbing on top of an exposed beam with my left arm, I run toward a window in the front wall of the store. I crash through it and roll down the roof, landing on my feet in the grass below, and I begin to run towards the woods.

A shot rings out, and pain blossoms in my left side. I try to run, but the forest safety is elusive. The man and my wife overtake me, each wielding a blade. She tears into my left thigh, betraying me with my own knife, as he slices across my forehead, my right eye soon useless.

My subconscious is screaming by now that this is just a dream. “Wake up! Wake up!” Kingair screams as Kit whimpers.

My body jolts awake, mouth frozen in a silent scream.

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Author:

From the long line of Benjamin O'Phares', steps the proud Phares Loren Hutchison, the first transguy to bear the family name with the dignity he was never bestowed.

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