Five years old and I am stripped naked and forced to lie on the floor of our rec room with a barbell across my throat. No windows here, only light seeping from beneath the door. Light drenches the carpet as if it were liquid. Can't see, can't move, can hardly breathe. Regarding this episode, I am unable to remember anything more. Except a rash of dreams that attached themselves to that very early period of my life like--how do you say it?--like flies on shit.

1: Night. I am riding with my father down a hilly road beside the Ontario airport. Radio blares news of Bigfoot roaming the orange groves. We pass Bigfoot hitchhiking. Father stops, says to Bigfoot, "Get in back with my son." Bigfoot? Well, he's hairy. He say to me "I have something to tell you." I look away. Bigfoot says "I have something to tell you. Lean over here; it's a secret." Father's driving, whistling. I feel Bigfoot's breath along my neck, the sweaty hair on Bigfoot's face. I feel Bigfoot's tongue in my ear. I'm waiting for Bigfoot's secret, anxious. Bigfoot bites off my ear. He eats it.

2: Night. My father drives me into the hills behind our home. He deserts me in a canyon. A pack of wolves flood through a hidden pass in the canyon. They surround me, yelping, closing in.

3: My entire family lay slaughtered in their beds, throats cut, dismembered. I search the house. I throw open my parents' shower curtain. The murderer's in the shower, bearded, holding a bloody and gleaming hatchet. He laughs. His lips and tongue are red as if he's drunk the blood of my family. He says, "Here you go, boy," and hands me the hatchet.

4: Bees are in my pillow.

5: A marionette with gigantic fingernails comes to tap on my window. "Let me in," he whispers. "I have something to tell you. I've got a secret." The marionette floats freely in the air. The marionette scratches against the glass. My desire to hear, to know, forces me to the window. I allow the marionette entrance. The marionette undresses me. The marionette's fingernails slice into my shoulders, the back side of my neck.

SOURCE: First Person: True Stories by Real People, zine by Tracey West, (the Dream Issue, 1995), p.23

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