The State of Strange and Weird

This is the beginning of my dreams; the introduction to my overactive subconscious. While a precious baby will spend fifty percent of its time sleeping in an extensive dreamland, our memories can fade. Most adults can only recall – with fine precision – to the age of ten, where memories are crystallized. Anything before that is either a fabrication or a marvel. It wasn’t until I reached my tween stage that I began having flashbacks of a horrid nightmare, something I feel as though I dreamt when I was only four or five-years-old. I was living in Germany at that time, having just been diagnosed with type one diabetes.

It is said that dreams are the beautiful fairytales we welcome in our sleep, while a nightmare is a dark horror that highlights a particular fear. In the moment, our skin crawls and our heart skips a beat. In reflection, such a nightmare may prove to be excellent material for a good laugh. But in the moment, when we are falling into a deep sleep, most things seem frightening to us – that would normally be so – because it is almost as though we are trapped by our nightmare’s strong red claws and cannot get out. A tongue’s hissing laughter binds us to the bed. We are falling, falling.

This dream began in Germany. There was a town with streets made of large cobblestone and the buildings were lined up closely like the skyscrapers of New York City. They weren’t perfectly built, but instead slapped together like the wonky, waving architecture of a Dr. Seuss piece. There was a grave level of seriousness present in this town. The sky was dark, signallying the beginning of night. There were no stars to illuminate the village. Instead, what cast glittering shadows across the stone and brick buildings where the orange and red dancing flames of fire. People were running around in a frenzy, their screams and hollers filling the night.

The wheels of a German military Panzer tank were moving along the cobblestones of the road as though they were cutting into the butter. Riding amongst such clunky beasts where numerous Nazi soldiers, their faces littered with scowls and smirks. Their dark eyes scanned over the town that was lit up in flames. They seemed to be pleased with the destruction they had caused. Smoke rose into the night sky, creating disoriented figures.

The appearance of myself in a dream is not unlikely. I normally am reflected in the dream the age that I was at the time I was dreaming it, which is what leads me to believe I was very young when this dream occurred. In it I stood close to four feet, coming in at the 95th percentile for my height at that age. I was dressed in pink shorts and a flowery tank top. My long, brown locks fell just below my waist and was half pulled up by a yellow bow. At first, all that could be seen of me was my backside as I took off running through the town, like all others, down this cobblestone road. It was like sitting in a theater, the stage of my nightmare only allowing for the three direct walls to be shown.

There was a bridge not far ahead where a cold deep river cut the town in half. Little wisps of flame poked through the grooves of the road as my little body ran from the grayish-green howitzer. The Nazis, dressed in their stiff traditional uniforms, were mercilessly throwing grenades at the frightened people. At that age, I had remembered them as bombs, thick latex containing smoldering hot lava. As each device hit its target, the case would split, enticing the burning of the city and its inhabitants even more. These Nazis are ruthless, their sick and amusing laughter continuing with the thrill of hurting us.

My family is before me. My father, mother, and younger sister stand before the bridge, arms curling as they encourage me to run. My little legs trip over themselves as I am hit in the right shoulder blade by one of the Nazis’ lava bombs. I cry out and fall to the ground in pain. A small scalding burn is smoking from my back. I reach my arms out to my family, the fifteen yards separating me from them seeming like a mile. “Go on without me!” I scream to them. They hesitate, but with the Panzer’s caterpillar track moving closer, my father pushes my family across the bridge.

I use my elbows to crawl along the bumpy road. I pull myself up using the brown stonewall of the bridge. Like ants swarming to a melting popsicle, I see all of Germany flood towards this rickety shack on top of the hill just beyond the other side of the bridge. It stands about ten stories high and three stories wide, reminding me of the unbalanced home of Ron Weasley and his ginger-haired kinfolk. Disappearing into the shadows, I use my small form to my advantage and make it across the bridge before the Nazis had a chance to pelt my creamy white skin with another grenade.

I make it up the tall, grassy hill, squeezing between the legs of the panicked. One by one, all of Germany escapes into this shack, everyone somehow fitting with much room left. I fall through the doors, people crowding the stairwell to the left. The inside looks a mere fraction of what the outside bears. There is very little lighting, small LEDs embedded in the soft wood planks of the walls. The first floor is maybe equivalent to a twelve by twelve square of carpet. The stairs to the left lead upwards, but disappear into darkness. The steps are rotten and thin, creaking with each footstep that runs across it.

Although I stay on the first floor, the people who stand with me show no importance. Nothing about them is memorable. There is only one figure that played any vital role. She was a short, middle age Asian with black hair that fell in a round triangle surrounding her face. She falls into hysterics and begins to jump up and down. Her bowed skeletal finger is pointing to a midnight blue baby carriage. Her shrill, accented voice screaming, “Lava bomb! Lava bomb!”

Those nearest to her bend their heads in the direction of the carriage. We take note the military green latex grenade, a crimson glow pushing through as the lava bubbles inside it. Fear encases us all. In the same frantic state in which they entered, all of Germany pours right back out of the building. Despite the fact that in normal reality a grenade would most likely cause catastrophic damage to those around it, instead of bolting for cover, these people are suddenly laying blankets out along the hill as though this was some Fourth of July gathering. My family is brought back together and my father lays a blanket out for all of us to sit upon. Like some silhouette postcard, families embrace and stare up eagerly at the sky.

When the lava bomb explodes, its flames transform into bright and colorful fireworks. Excitement and cheering are combined with fits of hand clapping. So many pops of fire burst in the air, one, two, three, fourteen. The boisterous night is met with silence as the image is immediately deleted. I have awoken in a frightful panic.