{"id":796,"date":"2023-04-03T20:34:30","date_gmt":"2023-04-04T00:34:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/briefbloom.com\/journal\/?p=796"},"modified":"2024-07-04T21:31:46","modified_gmt":"2024-07-05T01:31:46","slug":"echolog-the-girl-with-the-nightmare-affair","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/briefbloom.com\/journal\/echolog-the-girl-with-the-nightmare-affair\/","title":{"rendered":"echolog – the girl with the nightmare affair"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

“I’ve been having nightmares,” she said, threatening to break the ice.<\/p>\n

“Yeah?”<\/p>\n

“Yeah.”<\/p>\n

“I’m curious.”<\/p>\n

“I’m fucking thirsty.”<\/p>\n

A couple of minutes later she was sipping a vodka and coke. She gave a long look at my pack of cigarettes on the table, shook her head and sighed.<\/p>\n

“They’re all about the guy I’m seeing,” she began. “Well, not about him, but he shows up in all of them. We’re together, but when I’m not looking he disappears, so I go looking for him and when I find him, he’s like, shapeshifting. And he’s killing everyone.”<\/p>\n

“What else is there to do in a nightmare?” I asked.<\/p>\n

“Well, I’m sick of watching him kill my mom with a fucking bowling pin.”<\/p>\n

“What.”<\/p>\n

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to contain an embarrassed smile.<\/p>\n

“I think I got it from a movie,” she said.<\/p>\n

“There Will Be Blood<\/em>?”<\/p>\n

“God, yes,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable, “I don’t want to talk about it, I fucking hated it.”<\/p>\n

“Have you tried killing him?”<\/p>\n

“I kill him every night<\/em>,” she whined, “because he kills my mom. But he comes back.”<\/p>\n

“So does your mom.”<\/p>\n

“Yeah, so he can kill her again,” she took a drink, “fuck that.”<\/p>\n

“I have an idea you won’t like.”<\/p>\n

“God. What?”<\/p>\n

“You could kill your mom before he does.”<\/p>\n

“I knew you were gonna say that,” she said, rolling her eyes.<\/p>\n

“Or,” I offered, “you could say something really fucked up that you’d never say in reality. Hurt his feelings.”<\/p>\n

“He doesn’t have much of that,” she said, raising an eyebrow before correcting herself, “or.. many of those. Whatever.”<\/p>\n

“You could try dream interpretation,” I was out of ideas, “maybe if you know-”<\/p>\n

“I need to try therapy,” she said, eyeing my smokes again.<\/p>\n

“Please,” I scoffed. “Just go to the goddamn library.”<\/p>\n

A look.<\/p>\n

“The li<\/em>-bra-ry?” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Why<\/em>?”.<\/p>\n

“Freud and Jung put everything in writing,” I shrugged, “and a late fee is cheaper than a copay.”<\/p>\n

A long, stern look.<\/p>\n

“That’s the shittiest advice I’ve ever gotten here,”<\/span><\/strong> she said in monotone before repeating, mocking, “go to the library. <\/em>Like..”<\/p>\n

“You get what you pay for,” I said.<\/p>\n

“Obviously,” she muttered, finally taking a cigarette.<\/p>\n

“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you ten ways to turn your psycho sidepiece into a pussycat.”<\/p>\n

“I hate cats.”<\/p>\n

“Oh,” I said, “then what’s the problem?”<\/p>\n

“I don’t know,” she sighed, sat back, slouched, “I need to stop bitching.”<\/p>\n

“Yeah?”<\/p>\n

“My boyfriend says I complain all the time,” she said, distant, brushing ash from her thigh.<\/p>\n

“And what does the motherkiller say?”<\/p>\n

A look, a smirk, and a curse under her breath as she stubbed out her mostly unsmoked cigarette and rose to her feet.<\/p>\n

“Blood sugar,” she said, and was gone.<\/p>\n

\n

Notes:<\/p>\n