January 10 2007
I dreamt the other night of Marquis De Sade’s Justine. I saw her kneeling naked beside her bed, bowing in agony, on a pool of black, just like in the drawing.
I called her name.
She doesn’t look up but whispers:
“In my dream I was about to sleep but he was on my bed and I wanted him to leave.
He said he didn’t want to.
He was smiling.
Awake, I remember the times we slept together and how he had held me so close, so close, as if he wouldn’t let me go. Asleep and awake, he said he wouldn’t let me go…”
“But he did,” I coldly reminded her.
“How is he?” she whispers.
I laughed, “Still alive and having fun. He says ‘hi’.”
And she looks up to me with accusing eyes as if I were the one who had left her.
I shook my head. Still laughing, I walked towards her. I was smiling as I held her chin high, clenched her face higher, looking into her eyes…
I stroked her cheek, “Dreams lie,” taking my hand away from her, no longer smiling.
I slapped her.
I scream, “WAKE UP!”
I was forcing myself to wake up from the dream, mumbling to my dreaming self …one… two… three… wake up…
And just before I woke up, I saw Justine vomiting black.
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