London dreamscape

During the 10 days (give or take infinity) that I've had this cold, I've been rereading my journal from 10 years ago. I spent a couple of months subletting in Dublin, then wandered around Ireland, France, and the UK after taking a semester off from college.

I don't really sound different, so that's sort of funny on its own. Then, in the final few pages, there's a description of a dream I had about a week before heading home. It's one of the most vivid dreams of my life; I still tell people about it sometimes, but only the first part, and apparently with some of the details mixed up.

So this is the BCB, Time Machine Edition: You're me, and it's 1998. Go.

Had very odd and disturbing dreams last night, which I'm putting down to nerves at my latest transition/travel. I don't remember them all, but the last sequence I do.

I was in a car, trying to drive, and a dark-haired girl took a knife and began carving a story into my chest and back. I remember that it hurt in a pinpricking way, and I had a white t-shirt on so the letters appeared in a bright blood red as she worked away. I was thinking that she was crazy, and the way to avoid being injured any further was just to let her finish. She was saying the story out loud as she carved it into me, in a hysterical and terse voice.

Then she left me in the car with the knife, and the wounds dried up instantly on my body. I got out of the car and found myself in a nearly deserted parking lot, the one next to Caldor where the Food Mart used to be. [Note from the future: That's in Northampton. I think it's a Wal-Mart now.] Got out of the car and found a set of keys in my hand, attached to a square, orange keychain. (Hey, at least I know I dream in color.) Then Erin S. was there, and a young black guy I knew in the dream but don't actually recognize.

I was trying to steal a car that wasn't mine, but I had somehow wound up with the keys. It was a very old, beat-up white thing that had a shape like Kipp's 4Runner—and it had newsprint all over it, torn off in some spots. The guy took a picture out of his wallet and showed it to me; it was a brand-new, shiny model of the car in the lot. "This is my dad's car, you can see I have a picture of it." But I kept insisting it was my mom's car, and much older than the one in the picture.

This conversation went on for a very long time. Erin and the guy both knew I was lying, but neither of them could prove it, and also I had the keys. Then I woke up.