The Bottom of the Sea

Part 3: Walkabout

I slept until noon; I hadn't done that since I was in university. But I didn't wake rested, and my dreams were troubled.

I opened my eyes, thankful for rich colour and bright sunlight bathing the room. I loved waking up and seeing the ocean outside the large window in my room. It was framed in blocks of stained glass, making a kaleidoscope of rainbow colours on the wall. I tried to focus on the warmth and light of the room and forget the feelings of the dream that still clung to me: dread, horror and despair.

Even though I kicked off the blankets sometime in the night and the room was cold, I was covered in a thin film of sweat. I swung my legs out of the bed and pushed damp bangs out of my eyes. Shivering, I got up to pee. The nightmare was still close to the surface and when I shut my eyes, I still saw the disturbing images.

I was in a battlefield, or rather, watching one as if watching a movie. Everything was grey; the sky, the faces of the soldiers, the trees. Everything except the vivid crimson glow in the sky close to the horizon that pulsed with each explosion. And the blood. It was everywhere, bright scarlet in sharp contrast to the landscape. It bloomed like grotesque flowers; splotches on uniforms and faces, puddles on the ground.

Dead men were everywhere. Young, handsome, some barely out of their teens. Their broken bodies lay scattered for miles; the sheer number of them was obscene. I'd studied the wars in high school, but I never imagined the carnage was anything like this.

I saw the top of a hill in front of me, with a vast forest in the distance. There were muffled shouts, and the rumble of gunfire. The clamour began to get louder, the boom of the explosions closer. Suddenly, I saw the grey soldiers running up and over the hill, their eyes wild with fear. I saw three of them first, then eight, then 12. Before I had time to think, gunfire burst out from above me, cutting them down.

Their bodies snapped back and contorted in hideous ways. They spun and went down, arms flailing, chunks of flesh ripping from their faces, their legs and torsos. One by one, they fell until all was silent. I smelled blood and smoke. The eerie quiet turned into a ringing in my ears that got louder and louder. That's when I opened my eyes.

I sat on the end of the bed, still seeing the men's faces, the frightening ways their heads twisted, and their bodies contorted as they fell. I still felt their confusion, fear and their searing pain. It was the most horrible dream I'd ever had.

I made the bed and got dressed, folding my pyjamas and putting them away in the drawer. I wanted to go through the duffel bag, put all my clothes away, count my remaining cash and get organized. But I needed some time to process the dream and what it meant.

I'm a logical person; I don't put stock in dreams and their meanings. My dreams tended to be benign; boring even, despite the stress I'd been under for most of my adult life. What did this one mean?

I went downstairs, liking the creak of the staircase under my feet; each step solidly real. I cleaned the coffee machine and put on a fresh pot. Hunting around the kitchen, I found a cast iron frying pan, some butter, a spatula, salt and pepper. I took out the eggs and cracked two into the heated pan, heavily salting them. I didn't usually eat much, but suddenly I was ravenous.

While the eggs were cooking, I cut two thick slices of the bread and popped them into the toaster. Missy alternated calling it 'brown bread' and 'molasses bread' in her note, and I was curious to taste it. It wasn't like me to be so hungry; my stomach was usually twisted with anxiety and I generally ate like a bird.

I got out a bowl and poured half the container of blueberries into it before giving them a good rinse under the tap and drying the fruit with paper towel. I love blueberries, but God knows whose hands picked them; were they clean? What pesticides were sprayed on them? I gave them another quick rinse.