This is a nightmare in which, as if of a genre, has the form of a narrative in which I must witness the goings-on of horrible events, which are either narrated by a third party or a participant, usually in a non-embedded tone. This time the narrater is the protagonist, what I call a “zombie lord”.
In this dream it begins as a narrative. I see a scene of a sloping portion of undeveloped land lot in an urban setting, near an abandoned strip mall. The only activity seen at first is the view of a rather normal looking, if a bit “Bishop”-from-Aliens sort of man, dressed in a white dress shirt with rolled sleeves and simple black slacks and having an accountant’s parted hairstyle, sitting leaning back in a hollow in the ground behind a thick, long dead but still standing tree. He muses, as a thought we can hear, of how he likes to develop a personal relationship with his food (ala a character’s comment in the movie “Hostel”).
The view pans up the slope, which is mostly dirt with areas of grassiness, toward a copse of trees similarly delapidated as the one behind/under which our protagonist dwells currently. As if within earshot to the former, three ladies are listening to loudish music from a radio that seems to be (impossibly) plugged in somewhere, and which seems to be properly from the early ’80s using D batteries with a cassette player. They talk about this and that sort of gobblygook, and they tra-la-la down the slope to the abandoned strip mall to do whatever sorts of sorority-type things they plan to do there (incongruous, I know, but that’s what happened)
Then something happens.
A vision ensues, with the visage of the man transforming in collage along with the the image of a female trapped in a room with him, she reacting with horror to the transformation, which is ghastly. His eyes begin to glow a yellowish orange as his skin takes a pallid and chalky tone with greenish blue highlights. His supernatural aura grows daunting and nightmarish as his voice takes on a draconian aspect when he says to her in a baleful yet strangely placid voice, “You shouldn’t drink so much, it not good for your brains, especially when I am smacking them UP.” The view shifts to a scene of our zombie lord with greatly disfigured visage distored like something out a certain ’80s video from Genesis, his mouth as wide as and shaped in the circumference of a cantelope, taut and suctioning as it lifts from the evacuated head of the girl, strands of baige goo still joining the orifice to its freshly explored meal.
His inner hunger seems to light up now, as his feast properly begins. Scenes emerge and recede to each other of him jaunty and jubilant, cooking and preparing various bodily parts and organs in the near darkness of the place, with a dim light seeming to come from a quiet fire somewhere nearby as his hand busily moves the tissues about on fine ceramic plates, using some glinting metal instrument with a sort of chef-like gaity. The screams of the others visit us as his trapping them one by one is implied. Yet an ominous scene arises where two of the three girls are dramatically altered, with an appearance of having been transformed into some sort of quasi-zombie underlings themselves as they join him in the feasting, no doubt partly consisting of their own bodies.
As if the denoument, the zombie lord explains in transcendent narrative as our view recede from that horrible place, that his several-thousand year existence has been thusly nourished, and he takes great satisfaction in his long tradition of such conquests, having now raised his exploits to the level of an artform.
The dream, or rather nightmare, thankfully ends at that point, but not without making me wonder just WHERE IN HELL such visions come from, such visions which seem as independent of the mind which they visit as our waking experiences seem.
I ponder the strange cruelty of my dream, and of similarly cruel dreams from months and years ago in my past, which seem thankfully few and far between, but unfortunately come unbidden and by surpise even to this day.