The Dream?

Background: This forms the chapter 'Abducted' from the book DLC12.

This is going to be another one of those chapters where I’m giving it away with the title even though I seem to be doing some misdirection at the start. You’re not fooled. I know I’m not fooling you. Now you know I know you’re not being fooled. Hopefully, in knowing that, you feel more amenable to the outrageousness of the content.

I figure I dream like most people - more or less. I like dreams. Sometimes, I’ll be woken by something in the middle of the night, in the middle of the dream, realise I don’t need to wake, & go right back to enjoying that dream, or some continuation. These are pleasant dreams - you’ve been side-tracked & it’s under your control to steer back down the path. Other dreams can wake you with rising fear or a sudden fright, & you feel quite relieved that you’ve ‘escaped’ that experience. Then there are the dreams that seem so different - they’re not yours, as such, but you’re in them - & you can’t go back to them, because they were never yours to call on or control.

Sometimes I feel as though some dark dream-maker is directing stories & you are the unwilling actor placed there to say your lines, play your part, then move off the set. You might be interacting with people you feel you should know, but don’t quite, & they will drift off to other dreams, too, rarely to be met again. With an optimistic attitude, such dreams are a gift, sometimes, allowing you to be in a story. In a darker aspect, it seems that you are merely a puppet in someone else’s show. Maybe your brain is being manipulated for a dark purpose (a la ‘The Matrix’), or else Whitley Strieber was more on the right track & some people are specifically targeted & ‘taken’ - not just in dreams, but physically. I’m not suggesting I am one of those chosen, as such, but it’s a thought worth pursuing.

There’s no reason why little green men can’t exist - even within the confines of a God who created Man in His own image, such a God has many aspects & may have done the creation thing more than once (simultaneously). There’s no reason why some external force can’t control your night-time mental perambulations, as Asimov & many SciFi writers have suggested at times. Anything is possible in an infinite world - or a wild imagination.

I don’t fit the profile for an abductee, as far as I know, so I shouldn’t be worried. I don’t drive along desert highways at night or live on a cattle farm or surrounded by cornfields. I’m not American, speaking with a broad accent. Maybe I just don’t qualify.

Apparently, there are symptoms to look out for, though. One of them is an unexplained recurring bleeding nose, particularly in the morning, which is something I do suffer from if it’s cold & dry for a long spell. Another is finding little pieces of ‘foreign material’ in your nose, say - unexplained bits of metal. The less said about that, the better. Supposedly, this could be broken off bits of equipment - like needles & probes - that have been shoved up your nose to get direct access to your brain. 

I’m not a biologist. I assume that someone else has looked into the feasibility of this. Actually, I would rather that they hadn’t … I don’t need to know.

Sydney winters are cold & clear. The days are short & sunny, & the nights are great for sitting by a fire - not a large one, just a little one that assuages that caveman need for protection against the urban onslaught, I guess. Nights are chilly, but I almost always leave a little bit of my window open so that I can breathe freely. I’ve never liked to be fully closed in, cut off from the outside - another caveman need for escape, perhaps?

On this night, I’d done the usual routine - wrote a poem propped up in bed, felt ‘good enough’ about it, then snuggled in sometime around midnight. It’s a good routine - it gets me awake at the same time each morning without having to use alarm clocks. 

Now, though, it’s somewhat later. It’s dark & it’s very quiet. I’d say early hours of the morning. The moon is a pale sliver somewhere out there, but not quite shining through the window. I’m awake. I don’t know why. Sometimes, I can wake up & look at the clock & convince myself I’ve got time on my hands. This is more a rude awakening - but there are no fire alarms or insistent knocking on my door or … any sounds of distinction at all. 

I feel the need to get out of bed. This is not usually a good plan in the middle of the night, because I’m wearing nothing but boxers & the window is letting in the cool night air. Ah. Sticky boxers. Mild discomfort. Actually, if I concentrate, it’s more than mild - I’ve still got an erection & I’m sticky. How is that …? No. It’s not a dream, but I am still sleepy. You know how, if you wake up & see it’s still in the middle of the night, you roll over & return to the dream? That’s what it feels like, although I don’t think I want to return to this dream. I would like to clean up - maybe change, but no, I won’t.

I’m back in bed. Too drowsy to make cogent thoughts, & I’m asleep again in no time, as I expected, but didn’t really want. I’ve drifted. Bits of the dream of before start making their way back into my head - insistently. It’s not pleasant, but it’s all I’ve got. It’s intriguing, but I want to shy away from those thoughts - I just can’t.

I’ve traded my cold brick walls for something cold & clinical - walls too far away to discern. I’ve traded my bulk-standard College bed (well used) for something firmer, more professional, functional, but not intended for sleep as such - like a hospital bed, but more like the ones in an operating theatre. Does that make sense? No. It’s making less sense.

There is fear. A lot of it is mine. Not all of it. Some of it is hers. Yes, I am not alone. She’s there. I almost know who she is, but I don’t - it’s the name that sits on the end of your tongue, teasingly. We’ve done this before. I’ve dreamed her before. I’ve been here before. There’s something that happens each time, here. It has a lot to do with the fact that she’s waiting for me, mostly naked, on her ‘couch’, for want of a better term. She’s afraid, but she’s expectant. She knows I’m here, but she doesn’t want to know it. She knows me, but maybe she doesn’t know my name either.

This is my purpose. This is her purpose. Sometimes, in a dream, someone pops up & you know that your sole intention is to have sex, & their sole purpose in the dream is to be the one you have sex with. It’s that. In this case, though, she doesn’t seem as engaged as a dream should be. There’s no question that sex will happen - I have an erection that needs to be employed. Needs to be. There’s no other thought in my mind. I’m there with her. Normally, I’m a little more gentlemanly with my needs - like thinking about hers. Not now. Not this time. She knows that. The look in her eyes is almost a kind of forgiveness, but a mild anger - a suppressed fury - is also there. It’s not aimed at me.

This erection is very painful. What’s going on? It’s like a needle has been stuck into my genitals while I’m sticking them into her. Actually, it is a needle! It has to be! There’s nothing else could feel like that - not that I’ve had a needle stuck in before … as far as I know … come to think of it, maybe I have.

I really don’t want to have painful sex - not painful for her or me! I actually don’t want to be here at all. I’d like to withdraw - from her, from the dream. I can’t. That’s not fair. This is supposed to be my dream.

“What do you want from me?”

“Come now, Pietro - do what you came here to do.”

“Pietro” is what my mother calls me - & some government departments that think “Mr P G Malone” is too formal. That was not my mother’s voice. I really, really hope it isn’t a government bureaucrat. 

I can’t look around - a part of me won’t, & a part of me is being held by the ears by this woman who is becoming quite insistent that she wants my seed right now! She’s kind of twisting my ears to make me look into her eyes, her hot breath on my face as she seeks my lips. Her nails are digging in a little, but it’s not out of her need to hurt me, but she’s just so intent on climaxing - or on needing to climax, or on needing me to.

Focus. The voice. Them. There is a distinct multiplicity, although only one spoke - they’re in the corner of the eye, but I can only see them when I concentrate on her. I know them - but I don’t know their names, either. Actually, their features are on the tip of my tongue as much as her name is.

Them. I can’t see them, but I know that they’re ‘classic’ alien. I don’t know if that’s just my dream version, or they’re real in some sense & they actually take this form - short, smooth-skinned, pale & glossy, long-headed, effectively earless & noseless, with large eyes. I think of them as charming or cute. I don’t know why - harmless? That’s the vibe I get. That’s the vibe I’m supposed to get. That’s the vibe I have no choice but accept.

They’re naked. That’s cool. My boxers are somewhere around my ankles. I think I saw her undies somewhere nearby & she’s still wearing some sort of short Tshirt hoiked up to her armpits. It’s not that kind of party, though.

They’re not interfering - much. They’re trying to be discreet. We’re supposed to know that they’re there, but we’re supposed to ignore them. Their intrusions are polite questions.

“Could you do <this> now?” & I do.

“Why do you do <that>?” & she answers.

“Is <this> pleasant?” & my body fills with sensations that come from nowhere - like falling into or out of a dream without preamble. It might have been pleasant if there’d been warning, a build-up, but right now, it’s just your body reacting with a “fuck me, what was that?”

“When can we stop?” she asks, with laboured breathing. It seems that we’ve been going far too long. This is epic. This is legendary. This is wrong.

“You have much yet to do Maegaragh,” comes the kindly, almost reluctant response.

That’s who she is - I’d face-palm, if I could get my hand away from her firm buttock. I know her very well. I know her body. I know her voice. I know her eyes. We’ve never met. I’d like to meet her. I have a need to meet her, to be with her. There’s a very strong desire to do nothing more than find this woman & spend time with her.

“Yes! Very good, Pietro.”

Ah - so that was the intention in this case - I had to think longingly of her. That’s easy. Well, it comes naturally. Well, it just is the way I am, right now, in this moment. She fits. I fit in her. This is natural, usual, common or garden variety sex. This is consenting adults, a couple who regularly go at it. This is comfortable sex in a dynamic yet stable relationship. This is all I’ve ever wanted in life - she’s all I’ll ever need to satisfy my desires, my animal needs, my spiritual urges. She’s my soul-mate. She’s my other half. She’s all that’s missing in my life. She’s the drug that they’re pumping into my brain.

I have no resistance. I have never been able to resist. I never will be able to.

As I shoot my load, she climaxes - maybe a little too well-timed. Her breathing starts to come down to normal levels. So does mine. Normal? That was strenuous effort - ti was running a marathon, I guess - up a hill - at high altitude - carrying a heavy weight. I’ve never done any of those things, but it seems as if my body has been straining to do the utmost.

“It’s too hard. Please stop.” she murmurs. For me? For them?

“Hard. Yes. Good, Pietro. Again!”

We’re not done? We’re not done! 

The experiment isn’t over. I’m the experient. We are.

No - she can’t have meant that I am hard - I’ve just ejaculated. It’s not possible. I’m young, maybe fit, but definitely not a sex-god. I mean, I’ve read the Kama Sutra. I didn’t understand it, but the pictures …

“No. I’m done.” I whisper.

I can hear the disappointment in him not saying anything. I know it’s him.

I think of him as being masculine, but the voice is high - childlike. He speaks like an adult, though - like a well-educated tourist who has studied the language, his lexemes articulated with care to avoid confusion, like someone high-stepping through a bog, thinking they could slip over at any moment. I know him - he probably knows me better, but then he may have so many like me to experiment with. Maybe I’m not a favoured lab rat (guinea pig?). Maybe I’m just one of many that he looks in on, selected at random to work through a theory, then put back into the cage when it’s all over.

“Who are you?”

“You always ask, Pietro.” He smiles with his words. It’s genuine. Maybe I am a favourite. “My name is still …” & he burbles a bit, dragging out some syllables musically; I have no idea what some of those sounds could be. “... but it does not translate well.” There is some sadness in his voice. It’s as if he wishes I could remember his name, or make an attempt at it.

Then I realise just how condescending that is. He controls my body, but he can’t implant a name in my head?

There’s a drifting sensation again - like when I went into the dream (which must have been the second time), but in reverse. I had an operation where I was under anaesthetic & just “came out” quite suddenly. This isn’t like that. This is more like the wavy lines on a bad TV show where they show you time passing or something.

“Yes, my children - you have both done so well.”

Prick.

I’m lying beside her. Maegaragh. I’ve rolled off her, with my arms by my side. Spent. Physically, emotionally, sexually spent. There’s relief there - for both of us. We’ve done well. I don’t know if we’ve ever done badly, or if there’s a consequence. I don’t know if I should expect a reward. I feel sleepy. I can barely move, but I can move enough when she does & we lace our fingers together.

“See you next time, beloved,” she whispers. She always does.

“Stay mine,” is all I can say in response.

The second voice - there are only two of them - kind of chuckles good-naturedly. “It won’t be too long - you will see.”

I see him … her? … less distinctly, but they approach the couch & Maegaragh just gets up. I don’t know how. I know I have no desire - no ability - to move, but she seems to, effortlessly, & then she walks almost-but-not-quite-normally away. Away.

More chittering talk. Their language is blocked from me, I think. I don’t have the right to understand. I recognise this third being as my own handler. I am required to get up. No words, just a desire to leave now. Right now. I have motive force. I have purpose. I have whatever I need to get out of here.

There is an archway. It’s the same one. I have no idea what is outside this room, because I always black out about now …

That leaves me here. I’m a mess. No damage, but my head is spinning, my boxers are sticky - sweat & everything - & I’m not going back to sleep. It’s five. I should shower. I managed to write down as much as I could drag out of my scattering memory as soon as I could. I’ve tried to do this so many times - I know I have - but this is the first time I’ve been able to pull it all together & get it down on paper (on file) before the memory slips. Even now, I have  to read over bits to remember, & I can’t fill in the gaps above - those gaps are getting wider, like something ripping through my memory & tearing out whole pieces, leaving nothing.

It never happened. The dream, the experience, the sex, the girl, the aliens, this night.

It isn’t real. It wasn’t. It won’t be.

It’s still cold outside. I’m still wearing nothing but boxers. I don’t feel the cold though. I’m not so sure that I can feel anything right now beyond loss. Innocence. Self-respect. Her.