Daily Dreaming

I found myself on a rugby pitch. It was mid-game, and I was playing like I had never played before; not that this was particularly difficult, given my aversion to any kind of sport. My team consisted of people I recognised from my secondary school, and we were winning against a side that seemed to be resigned to a heavy defeat. Mostly I just remember running down the wing, ball grasped in my hand, as I delivered yet another 5 points for our side. If only my rugby-mad family could have seen me then…

—

Whether I awoke and fell back asleep, or the dream simply took an unexpected turn, I can’t remember. The next part was more vivid and less pleasant.

I was walking down a street reminiscent of my childhood home, yet slightly different. It was sunny and quiet. Silent, in fact. Although the road ahead seemed short enough, it felt as if I had been walking for some time without getting very far. Every step seemed to move me only half as far as it should have. Although I was sure that I was moving at a normal speed, there was a strange sense of time moving slowly around me. I had no point of reference, no passing residents or sounds to confirm this feeling; just a general awareness as if everything around me was moving slightly slower than it should be.

I eventually arrived at the end of the street and found my childhood home standing where it always had, even as the road around me seemed to be arranged incorrectly. I entered and at first thought myself home alone. The silence followed me in, and there was no sound in the house. Yet something was slightly off again.

The porch of my family home opened into a dining room with table and chairs to the left and a walkthrough into the kitchen on the right. After the gap to the kitchen, a small wooden table about stomach height stood next to the doorway into the rest of the house. It was this usually innocuous table that caught my attention. There was a large piece of cardboard taped to the end facing the porch, covering up something behind.

Walking over to the table, I noticed that the cardboard was only attached on one side and formed a flap over a hole. The hole itself was jagged and big enough to fit one’s arm in, but that wasn’t all. This was not an ordinary hole – in fact, it was an impossible one. It was deep, dark and damp, stretching infinitely away from me into the distance. The table itself did not have the space inside to fit the enormity of this cavity. It was like the hole offered a gateway to a different place entirely.

Before I had a chance to truly inspect the contents, I was surprised to see my parents enter the dining room. Rather than the homecoming welcome that I expected, they walked with blank faces over to the hole and peered inside. My mum then reached in, and her face contorted to one of horror and disgust. She pulled back her arm so that the hole was visible again, giving me another chance to inspect it more thoroughly.

This time it hit me almost immediately. Stretching away into the nothingness, the entrance of the gap was a fleshy shade of pink. Inside were small parts of what looked like human remains, apparently fresh as if only recently placed within. Scattered throughout, these pieces seemed to go as far back as I could see and made for a horrendous sight.

I pulled myself away from the hole and turned to my parents, but was struck by the looks of anger in their eyes. It dawned on me that they were blaming this strange circumstance on me. No words were spoken, time seemed now to stop entirely, and their angry gazes bore down on me with increasing intensity. I felt a wave of guilt wash over me and suddenly I couldn’t even bear to stand. Bent down, hands on my head, a madness quickly built up inside me. How could this be my fault? What was the hole? How could I have any idea what had happened here? What was going on?

I wanted to shout out something – anything – but couldn’t. The scenery faded. So too did my consciousness.

Eventually, I woke up.