Science Fiction Fantasy: Marcs Diary

When life is tough, you grow up one of two ways. You can grow up tough, fighting and overcoming obstacles in your path. Even if you make it, you carry some scars. If you're lucky, you find someone who helps you forget your past. Or you can grow up timid, retiring from the world, seeking some inner order or explanation for the chaos. I'm more the latter, a seeker. I thought I had my life together, but the nightmares are coming back, encroaching on my life. My past is fragmenting my life. Perhaps this is the action of a desper- ate man, purging his thoughts and casting them in an electronic bottle upon a sea of electrons. I simply want the dreams and pain to stop. My shrink sug- gested a diary. Hated them in school. Maybe it's because I had to lie. My diaries reflected the world I wanted. Who knows? Here it goes...

My name is Marc Alan Halbred. I'm a programmer. A very good programmer, I like to think. Thirtysomething, married with a daughter and son. I'm quiet and reserved. I do most of my talking inside my head. Mitz and I have been married, happily, for fifteen years. It doesn't seem that long. She knows very little about my past. My coworkers don't suspect. It's just me and my therapist. I don't think I've even told her everything. I'm terrified but need to expel the shame and guilt. My therapist is hung up on the symbolism in my dreams. Oh yeah, I should tell you about them.

I'm stalking through the jungle. I hear rifle fire and drop down. I crawl slowly coming up to a camp. I sneak about the tents. I see a large net (?) with a guy dangling from it upside down. The scene shifts, I'm beside the guy with an officer next to me. "I'll interrogate him," he says, and be- gins thrusting his cock down the guy's throat while the guy struggles. I turn back towards the tent and walk in. It becomes a school room. The teacher is handing out tests. I didn't know I was taking classes. I don't know any of this. I get up and leave and walk down the hallways. Most of the lights are out. I push open one door entering the men's locker room. I strip naked and take a piss. I walk out into the gymnasium where there's a meet going on. It's my turn. I face my opponent on the wrestling mat, he's on top. The whis- tle blows. [In different dreams, he's fucking my face or ass. In others, I'm fucking his and enjoying it.] Afterwards, we have to climb across this rope. As I work across, I see this rickety house below. Just bare house frame with studs, rats crawling around on the floor. "Come on" I hear. Someone begins shaking the rope. It grinds into the crack of my ass. [Usually I get a wet dream here.] They keep shaking until I fall into the water. I try to stand, but my feet are stuck in the mud. Worse, I'm sinking. I feel eels or leeches swimming about my ass. The seaweed is wrapped about my hands. The water is rising up to my mouth. [At this point, I usually wake up drenched in sweat.]

This is a composite summary. When I see it written, it doesn't seem so terrifying. But at night, it's so vivid; I wake up drenched. In one dream, I dreamt that two children were taken hostage. I grab them and we're running to the squad cars. They start shooting at us. I lay over the kids. I feel the bullets hit me. I wake up and the small patches still tingle on my back and side. Some of the symbolism I can see directly. My past does live in my dreams. To understand, I will try and provide some pseudo-chronological back- ground.

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My father was an alcoholic. I didn't know it when I was three. I do re- member the last time I ever saw my father.

"What the fuck ya doin' Helen. Come here!" My father had just come home from one of his drinking sprees. My mom was in the kitchen. His hands started pulling at her shirt when I ventured in. "Why don't ya give me a kiss to wel- come me home!"

"Come on, Hank. You're drunk." She said quietly.

"You're damn right I'm drunk!" He grabbed her roughly by the arm. "Come here." He pulled her like a doll into his arms, fastening his lips to hers. She tried to push away.

"Mama?" I asked. My father swung about to see me, then turned back to my mother thumbing his finger at me.

"Why's he still up?" He turned to me. "Get your ass in bed!" I stood frozen in terror. My mother started toward me, but he held her fast. "Go!" he cried. We stood there staring at each other; my terror transfixed by his rage. Then he advanced towards me.

"Mama?"

"No, Hank!" I heard her cry, grabbing his arm. I turned and ran. I hid in my closet, clutching a stuffed animal. [My seal. Fred? Anyway] "Hank!" I heard a slap.

"I work hard all day keeping you in clothes. When I come home at night, I expect a little lovin'. Is that so much to ask?" he shouted. Things were crashing to the ground. "Take off your clothes, damn it." There was a ripping sound. I heard my mom scream. I remember screaming into the seal. The table squeaked. "Damn it, it's your fuckin' fault!" There was another thud and my mom was crying. "You use me, bitch. You and that fuckin' brat!"

"No, Hank, stop!" More scuffling.

"Stupid cunt," his voice said more hazily. Later I heard my parents' bed- room door close. The next morning my mom took me and a few possessions and left. I've never seen my father since.

We moved in with my mom's Aunt Lillian. The woman was bonkers ever since her husband died back in the Korean War. It was there that my mother gave birth to my sister Doreen. A horrible name, I think, but one of those passed down in the family--a hapless heirloom.

My aunt never remarried. There were pictures of him everywhere; the liv- ing room was more a shrine. My mother had to work to provide the necessities for my sister and me. My aunt wasn't poor just very rigid in how we were to fit into her environment. While mom worked, Aunt Lillian cared for us. She was a strict disciplinarian.

Once I accidently knocked over a flower pot sitting on the windowsill. She ushered me down to the basement, locking me in the coal cellar. I remember the darkness clinging about me. When something brushed against me I realized that there were mice or rats in there and began screaming. I was told to quiet down or I'd be there until dinner. I told my mother that night, but she chided me for lying and that we relied on Aunt Lillian's courtesy. Aunt Lillian had told my mother how I had broken the pot and hid in the basement. It took my aunt several agonizing hours to find me. I often was punished for my sister's actions. As the boy, I had to do a number of chores. I guess I'll talk about her tommorrow.

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