I guess my subconscious has been building toward something over the weekend and decided to shock me with some things in dream format.
In the dream, I was in a dark room. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank, it was so dark. I wasn’t worried or afraid, because I knew I was there waiting for something.
Suddenly there was this light; it was blinding because it was like pitch in the room. It flashed really bright for a second, then mellowed into something soft. As it faded, there was a mirror.
It was an old-fashioned standing mirror, with lots of fancy silver metalwork (it seems that my brain can never conjure up modern mirrors; every time I dream of a single mirror, it’s always some old-fashioned thing that looks handcrafted).
While I’m standing there looking at it, a voice booms out, “Step right up, step right up! Step right up and take a look!”
Great, the voice of my subconscious is moonlighting as a carnival barker.
I listen to the great booming voice and step up and take a look.
The surface of the mirror is black, at first. Then it’s like I’m moved back and I see that the surface of the mirror was black because I was seeing an extreme close-up of this black cowl-type garment. There is a woman in that garment. Nothing tells me this; I simply know it.
She just stands there. The hood of the cowl is covering her head and hiding her face completely, but she is staring at me. There’s no menace, nothing bad about her, but she’s just staring at me.
I don’t know if I should speak or run or what. Then she speaks.
Don’t go, she tells me, and her voice is…odd. I don’t know how to describe it. Like mine, sort of. Cadence and tone were different, but it still sounded like my voice. I don’t even know if that’s possible.
Anyway, I’m just blinking at this woman in the mirror. I feel like I should ask her to put the hood down so I can see who I’m talking to, but I’m afraid to ask her. She might not want to show me her face; she might have good reason.
The woman laughs, and it’s like my laugh when I’m really laughing, but not. She pulls the hood off, and I see her face.
She has scars on her face, like burns. Her face is covered in runnels, like her skin melted. But still, it’s like my face! Like my face, but not. Her eyes, despite the ruin of her face, are beautiful, a bronze color. Very startling.
I’m getting kinda scared now, but I asked her as nicely as I could what happened to her face.
I was doing this to her, she said. I’m trying to burn her out. There was this unnerving sort of matter-of-factness about her, and something hotter under the surface.
So I ask her why she can’t stop what’s happening to her.
I can stop it at any time, she said. I’m trying to burn her out because I’m afraid of her, though I shouldn’t be, as she means me no harm. It’s time for me to face her, to see her and accept her, she went on. And now there was anger. Her eyes burn with it, and if I wasn’t afraid of her before, I certainly am now.
Again she laughs at me, laughs at me with the laugh that is and is not mine. This anger is mine, she says to me. She has held it since my (our?) childhood, and she is tired of being the dumping ground for it. Anger turned on the self burns like acid, can’t I see that?
The view of the mirror shifts to an extreme close-up of her face, her ruined face and those burning molten eyes.
Look well at anger displaced, she tells me. Look at what it does.
Then she laughs again, and it is bitter laughter. We will meet again, she promises, and she fades out.
And I wake up.