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Trappedby Zoe Quilter
Copyright 2001 All rights reserved
zeldasdragon@ntlworld.com
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/zeldasdragon
Is this a dream? I am diving towards a town in an old battered Renault, my friend Jean in the passenger seat. Where I am, I have no idea, only that the countryside is patchwork of green fields and the occasional copse of trees. We pass through a village where the road forks around a peaceful village pond, complete with a compliment of picturesque ducks and geese. There is always a feeling of deja vu as I reach this cross roads, is it real, did I dream it, am I dreaming it?
The road winds up a hill to an old building that surmounts it. The masonry shifts from cathedral to castle as I watch, it is never the same, whenever I visit. Walking across the cobbled stones in front of the edifice, I mount the steps and try the tall wooden doors. They are closed and always have been, on every visit. Is this place real or in a dream, a dreamer dreaming of reality?
We descend into the town, Jean driving, yet I am unaware of our change. The engine splutters and dies at the foot of a steep cobbled street. We get out and lift the bonnet, hoping to see the obvious, yet I know it will not be found. How do I know?
The town is occupied, armed soldiers in uniform move about the streets. I feel apprehensive, we should not be here, but I do not know where we 'should' be. Steeling myself to act normally, I ask a soldier if he knows of a garage, he indicates a double gateway halfway back up the hill. How can I understand his language when I know it should not be possible? I speak to Jean and she agrees to stay with the car. As I walk up the steep hill, I can look through room windows that are level with the pavement, one is a military canteen.
The dishes have been coming for ever, I just wash them and listen to the conversations. Jean and Helen are being wined and dined by the officers. I wash another plate and move it to the drainer, wondering why Helen is in this dream. There is laughter and gaiety, but I am outside the circle, I feel jealousy, deep, and cutting through me like a knife. But this is a dream, so I keep washing the dishes. But is it a dream? I turn and vent my emotions; on deaf ears. I am not there, I am a ghost condemned to observe, never to participate, always denied.
I walk from the room unobserved, unnoticed, into the stone corridors of a castle. Distant noises impinge on my consciousness. The sounds of distress, of tears, of fear, of pain, emanate from closed doors as I pass, and yet I feel nothing. At times I glide across the floor, wraith like, at others feeling the stone steps beneath my feet. I pass guards at doors, who seem unaware of my presence, as I wander the endless passages and stairways worn low by so many feet. Can anything here be real, am I a phantom in my own dreams?
At last I find the room, drawn like a moth to a flame. There are no sounds, no cries, no torment, no guard on the door. I reach out my hand to touch the heavy wood with my fingertips, it swings open easily, as if I had been expected.
She is hanging upside down by a rope, while a sweating butcher slowly and carefully slices the skin from her still living body, as it swings slightly at under his experienced hands. The floor is running with blood and discarded flesh, and through it all, Helen smiles.
I turn and walk away, empty of feeling; I can do nothing for the willing damned.
I am behind the wheel of the Renault, the dust from the gravel track billows behind as the town recedes behind me at the bottom of the hill. A border guard steps into the road and flags me down, hand on a machine gun hanging casually from his shoulder. "Passport Madame." I reach into the glove compartment withdrawing a pistol, which I point at his head. I pull the trigger. There is no emotion as I cast the still smoking pistol onto the passenger seat, and yet, somewhere deep inside my dream and my reality, I wonder, why?
I drive for a while and then stop. I must go back. Why must I go back if this is just a dream? Because Jean is still there and she is a friend, even in a dream; there 'is' nothing else.
I sigh a long sigh, resting my forehead on the wheel for a moment. Then, I turn the wheel and drive back down the road into the reality, still dreaming.
FIN