I’m standing in a bathroom in front of a mirror reapplying makeup that doesn’t need to be reapplied. At least, that’s what I think I’m doing. All of the evidence is there: purse open, eye shadow balanced on the lip of the sink, mascara wand in hand. I’m raising the wand to my left eye when I see something. Or hear something. Something happens that makes me turn, and now I’m holding the wand like a weapon.
I’m not that girl. I’m not the girl that meets things head-on, weapon in hand. Not once in my life have I ever wanted to investigate that weird noise coming from the basement. This fact and this fact alone is what makes me finally realize I’m dreaming.
Whatever I’m walking toward terrifies me. I look down and notice the mascara wand has turned into a knife. Interesting. I tell my feet to stop and they take another step instead. I’m moving in slow motion through mud. That’s what this feels like.
The splashing registers and I look down at my traitorous feet. I must be walking through at least six inches of water.
There is something in that stall on the end. I don’t know what, or who, but I know it’s there. I also feel that, though this is a dream, that thing in the stall can hurt me. It has claws, teeth, tentacles, something that can do me harm.
I’m six feet away, five feet, four feet…
That’s when I realize I’m already dead.
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