My subconscious has gotten tricky. I had a dream last night that I was raped -- something about me feeling like I'm being taken advantage of -- and I always know it's a dream because I can't scream. But I tried to scream, tried to tell the onlookers that something was wrong and to please help, but I couldn't, and I thought (in my dream), "It's not a dream. It's true, in these life-threatening situations, I lose my voice." That is the most frustrating thing about these sorts of dreams, that I can't cry for help, that I'm on my own and I can't help myself, that I'm muffled by pillows and blankets and don't even realize it. And then I wake up, sweating (my mom told me that you have bad dreams when you're warm, that's why I always sleep with a fan on but I manage to burrow under my blankets enough to void it), upset not that I had such a traumatizing dream but that I didn't realize it was a dream at the time. And there's Aaron next to me, grinding his teeth (I rub his jaw in the mornings to try to get him to stop), Derrick on the floor, Tiffany on the couch, all sleeping like babies, I could kill them now and they wouldn't even know it, and I'm alone and I'm late for work.
Nailed the math test to the cement walls that engulf my apartment.