Get Out of My Dreams

by Fernando Trujillo Sanz

  GET OUT OF MY DREAMS

  Fernando Trujillo Sanz

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Copyright © 2014 Fernando Trujillo Sanz

  http://www.facebook.com/fernando.trujillosanz

  nandoynuba@gmail.com

  Edited by

  Nieves García Bautista

  Translated by

  Barbara Salsgiver

  FIRST DREAM

  I had no idea how I had gotten to the museum. But there I was, disoriented and frozen in place—buck naked, I might add—in front of a painting I didn’t like in the least, in the middle of a huge gallery with people milling around on all sides of me.

  Thoroughly embarrassed, I crouched over, instinctively covering my private parts with both hands as I looked all around me. People walked right past, not paying me the least bit of attention, but that didn’t lessen my gut-wrenching anxiety. Without moving my hands, I retreated from the center of the gallery until my back was against the wall. I wanted with all my might to wake up. This was not the first dream I’d had in which I turned up naked in the midst of a bunch of strangers.

  A young boy pointed at me and laughed as he pulled on the arm of a man who thankfully was completely absorbed in contemplating a painting. I somehow knew the man was his father. I’d never seen either of them before, but that’s how dreams work; you know things you couldn’t possibly know, you find yourself in places that mean nothing to you, and things happen that you can’t explain. Like, for example, how my feet didn’t feel cold even though I was standing barefooted on a marble floor.

  “Not here . . . You’re so bad!”

  I knew that voice all too well. It was a voice I heard every day at school—a soft, melodious, feminine voice. A voice you get the feeling is always accompanied by a smile.

  “Why not? Are you ashamed to kiss me in public?”

  Just then I saw them—Claudia and Eloy—together . . . in one another’s arms. They were off in a corner at the other end of the hallway. I could see them clearly in spite of all the people between us who were strolling around, talking about the various works of art. Claudia was radiant, her long, brown hair cascading over her shoulders and floating as gently as if she were under water. No doubt this was another of the surreal effects of the dream. Eloy, on the other hand, was revolting. This drooling fool looked nothing like the cocky jerk who tormented me at school. Here he was much fatter and seriously deformed—with arms so disproportionately large he looked like a gorilla. And yet, it was definitely him. I knew it. Though my subconscious had equipped him with grotesquely hideous features, it was still Eloy.

  Claudia was resisting, playfully turning her face away from him. He was holding on to her with his gigantic arms, his disgustingly long tongue protruding from his mouth like a serpent.

  “Come on, don’t be silly. Just one little kiss.”

  She laughed, but continued to struggle. She was flirting. I felt nauseous. I wanted to get her away from him, to save her. But I couldn’t go over to them, being as I was naked. Everyone would see me and make fun of me.

  “Quite a touching scene,” said someone from beside me.

  I turned my head in the direction of the voice, a bit surprised. Two identical faces were looking at me, smiling sweetly and innocently, seemingly lit up from within. Two charming little girls who were younger than me—about ten years old, maybe?—who looked so much alike they had to be twins were standing beside me. One was blond, the other was brunette. But that was the extent of the differences between them.

  “Did you say something?” I felt really uncomfortable about being naked in front of these girls, though they didn’t even seem to notice. The blond one was leaning on a simple, small black stick—just the right size for her small stature.

  The brunette ripped it from her hands, looked at me, and pursed her lips, her smile disappearing.

  “Are you a masochist?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why do you keep looking at them? At Claudia and Eloy? Are you stupid or something?”

  I sighed. “This is the strangest dream I’ve ever had . . .”

  The blond twin held out her hand. The brunette snorted and stomped the floor, then unwillingly handed over the stick.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” said the blond. “She’s a grump. Do you like this painting?”

  I looked at the painting the girl was pointing to, the same one I’d seen just when the dream began; a second before realizing I was in a museum and two seconds before confirming that my pajamas had not traveled with me to the dream world.

  The painting depicted a game of cards involving four players. In one corner there was a little pigtailed girl, perhaps five years old, watching the game. Next to the child sat an enormous black dog. It was obvious that the artist was dreadfully lacking in skills since he’d drawn the shadow of the little girl in the opposite direction from everyone else’s. Luckily for him, his work was on exhibit in an imaginary museum.

  “Not much,” I said indifferently. I couldn’t keep my eyes from straying over toward Claudia. She was still struggling with Eloy who was still trying to kiss her. It was as if time had stopped for them, but not for me.

  “I don’t like art,” I continued. “Not paintings or sculptures. They bore me.”

  “You’ll like this painting,” the blond insisted as she turned the stick around in her right hand. Beside her, the brunette made a face, clearly impatient. “It represents a very important battle in our history: the Invasion of Normandy—a great victory of World War II.”

  I didn’t care about World War II. Germany lost and the good guys won—and that’s all I needed to know. It was then that it hit me that we were talking about the same painting in which I had just seen a game of cards—not a battle. I looked at the painting again.

  I was surprised to now see a beach. The ground was smattered with dead bodies and explosions were happening all around. Soldiers were coming out of the water, dodging the blasts amid large metal structures, shielding themselves as best they could . . . and dying.

  There was something going on with this painting; it was as if it were moving.

  I still wasn’t interested.

  The dark-haired girl again took the stick from the blond.

  “You are such a pain in the butt,” she reproached the blond. “I told you he’d want nothing to do with the paintings. He’s only interested in Claudia. Isn’t that right?”

  Claudia and Eloy carried on with their “negotiations.” I covered my privates with both hands even though I wasn’t bothered that much anymore about being nude.

  “I don’t understand what she’s doing with him,” I mumbled as I stared at the two of them.

  The brunette huffed in exasperation.

  “You don’t know? You’re such a loser!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your dream. You of all people should know. That’s why I asked you if you were a masochist. You’re dreaming about some disgusting pig feeling up your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I protested.

  “Obviously,” the brunette shot back. “Or that aberration wouldn’t be groping her.”

  The blond stepped between us and held out her hand. The brunette dropped the stick on the floor, a false expression of surprise painted on her face. The blond bent over and picked it up. She turned it around in her tiny hand.

  “You’re upsetting him,” she said to the brunette, her voice too soft to convey any authority. Turning to me, she added, “C’mon, look at the painting. This battle is fascinating.”

  “I told you I don’t like hist—”

  The painting had changed. The sea was no longer visible; it was now only sand. The soldiers were
advancing and gaining terrain. On the right side, bunkers were belching out bullets and all sorts of other projectiles at the invaders.

  “So, that’s how the battle unfolded,” commented the blond enthusiastically.

  “The painting changes its scene?”

  “Sure. In dreams, anything is possible. Watch.”

  Another image. Another phase in the conquest of Normandy. The Allies were fighting the Germans, throwing them out of the bunkers. The painting changed yet again. It wasn’t moving like a video, but the painting would distort and then new images would form. And it all looked incredibly real. I watched in stunned amazement as the blond girl narrated the battle in great detail.

  That is, until the brunette snatched the stick from her.

  “That’s about enough of this historical garbage. Your dreams are terribly boring.”

  “Not to mention confusing,” I agreed. “Why am I dreaming about you two.? That’s never happened to me before.”

  “And about Eloy.” The dark-haired girl pointed at him with the stick. “It’s kind of strange you made him look like that. You must really hate him.”

  “I don’t . . .” I stifled the denial I had been about to profess. It was my dream; I didn’t have to pretend or keep up appearances. “Honestly, I don’t like him.”

  “And still he’s trying to do dirty things with your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my—”

  “And it doesn’t seem to bother her.”

  “Of course it bothers—”

  “It bothers you. And yet it’s your mind that’s conjuring up this image. You are definitely an idiot. What do you think will happen now? Will he win her over? Will he kiss her in front of everyone with that monstrosity of a tongue while you stand there in your birthday suit, staring at them with that stupid look on your face?”

  My stomach turned just thinking about it. “God, I hope not.”

  Eloy moved in closer, wrapped his ape-like arms around her and pulled her close to his deformed body. She looked up at him and smiled, fluttering her eyelashes. Eloy’s slimy tongue slithered in the air and headed straight for Claudia’s mouth. It was hissing.

  Just then, Eloy lost his balance. His left leg, which was much shorter than his right, bent in an unnatural way. His knee made a crunching sound. I heard the noise as clearly as if it had happened right next to me. And to be truthful, I was glad. Now Claudia would break free from his filthy kiss.

  Or maybe not.

  Eloy regained his balance and stood up straight again. With Claudia in his arms and his face just a fraction of an inch from hers, he turned his head ever so slightly, looked at me out of the corner of his eye . . . and winked.

  I screamed at the top of my lungs, cupping my mouth with my hands like a megaphone, but my voice made no sound at all.

  Eloy leaned over Claudia and finally kissed her. It was a passionate, repulsive kiss—sleazy and full of lust; the kind of kiss that leaves no doubt about what will happen next.

  No matter how desperately I wanted to, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

  Eloy’s tongue emerged from between his lips, which were still plastered to Claudia’s and, without squeezing too tightly, wrapped around Claudia’s neck, covering her with drool as it caressed her. Nauseating.

  “Like I said,” snapped the brunette, “you are a complete idiot.”

  Claudia hugged Eloy, giving herself up to him. And that was the last straw. I couldn’t stand seeing her surrender herself to that scumbag.

  All sound disappeared, then the colors and the shapes, and then everything started spinning . . .

  I woke up with a groan. I was sweating and panting, and my pulse was racing.

  I was sitting in my bed, my pajamas dripping with perspiration. I felt my legs and was relieved to discover that I was, in fact, wearing something. The horrible dream was finally over, but the image of Claudia and Eloy’s heated embrace was still implanted in my brain.

  The alarm clock interrupted my train of thought, jerking me back to reality. Dazed, I let it ring a little while longer and then finally shut it off.

  My shower did nothing to wash away the feeling of disgust that seemed to be glued to my skin. It was only after I had something for breakfast that I started to feel a little better.

  “You don’t look well, Son. Did you sleep all right?” my father asked as he poured himself some coffee.

  “Not really,” I answered. “Maybe I should stay home today to see if I can get some rest.”

  “Nice try to get out of going to school. If your mother hears you, you’ll catch hell.”

  I continued eating in silence while my father read the newspaper—like every morning. There he sat, dressed in an impeccably styled suit, drinking his coffee without spilling a single drop as he pored over the news about the economy. It was as if he were gulping that down, too.

  I sometimes wondered if my father wasn’t really my father. We were so different. I always dressed casually, more or less in style but leaning a bit toward the rebellious side. I liked torn, faded jeans, messy hair, and tattoos—though I hadn’t summoned enough courage to tell my father I had decided to get one . . . a really sweet dragon tattoo that I’d always liked. My father, on the other hand, was always in a suit, quite possibly the same one every day since they all looked the same to me. They actually did vary in color a little bit, but that was about it. I didn’t remember having ever seen so much as the knot of his tie being slightly off-center, or his shirt being stained or wrinkled. He was always meticulously put together. He was perfect. And he did everything well.

  “I can drop you off at school today,” he said as he turned a page. “It’s on my way.”

  “I’d rather take the subway.”

  The knife I was using to spread butter on my toast dripped, staining the sleeve of my shirt. I swore under my breath.

  “Oh, I forgot. You don’t want to be seen with me.” My father closed his newspaper. I slid my arm under the table and wiped my shirt off on my jeans. “You’re sixteen now—too old to get a ride to school from your father, right?”

  “It’s not that, Dad. I just don’t want to go to school in a Mercedes driven by a chauffeur. Can’t you understand that?”

  “No, I can’t. Why are you ashamed of your family? Is it so bad to have money? Maybe you think I steal it? Son, in this life, a person’s character is the most important thing; you can’t feel better or worse than others based on how much money you or they have or don’t have. People are so much more than—”

  I stopped listening, though I did make an effort to pretend like I was. I’d suffered through this speech hundreds of times and found it absurd. My father didn’t have to go to school every day. He ran his business—his empire—where he was the king, where everyone else submissively followed his orders. I knew all too well that my father had been a straight-A student; everything was a breeze for him. Everyone said he was handsome, he must have been even more so when he was young. He had it all. And that’s exactly why he didn’t understand my situation. My father’s privileged mind simply could not see the danger in going to school in a car that cost more than the annual salary of some of my classmates’ families. It would make me the target of their envy and mistrust. They’d hate me for it. To sum it up, my father was brilliant, but he was too old to understand my problems. And I was already well past the stage when I tried to impress him and rise to his expectations. I’d already figured out that I’d never be able to and I didn’t care.

  “Chatting about the same thing as always, eh?” said my mom as she entered the kitchen.

  She was carrying an enormous watering can which she was no doubt going to refill so she could continue with her gardening chores. My father’s face showed his concern; he didn’t like her lifting heavy things since she was pregnant.

  “Good morning, Mom,” I said, happy to cut off my father’s sermon.

  She rustled my hair with her good hand—her right hand. Most of the skin on the left side of her body had been
deformed by burns she’d suffered in a fire before I was born.

  “Did you have a bad night? You don’t look well.”

  I must really have looked bad. I didn’t get that impression when I was combing my hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Sure, my eyes were a little puffy, but I didn’t think anyone would notice. In any case, I didn’t feel like talking about that strange dream I’d had, so I lied.

  “I stayed up late reading comics. Just didn’t get enough sleep.”

  “So, Son, you think that’s a good idea. Reading comics. It’s all about you having fun, isn’t it? But what about studying? That’s not important, right?”

  I choked down a piece of toast.

  “I have a month until exams. There’s no reason to study now.”

  “So you’re planning to save it all for the last day?” asked my father. His voice was soft, his tone relaxed, but that didn’t mask the reproach with which his words were clearly infused.

  “For the next-to-last day,” I said defiantly.

  “That’s not what we agreed to. You are going to study—”

  “I’m going to pass. That was the deal. What counts are the grades, the end results. What difference does it make when I study? As long as I pass I’ll have done what I promised. That’s what you want, right?”

  “Don’t talk to your father like that. He wants you to study for your benefit, not his,” my mother interceded.

  “That’s not true!” I shouted. “He wants me to follow in his footsteps—to study business and all that crap.”

  “Is that so bad?” asked my father.

  “Not for you, apparently.” I looked to my mother for support. “You always told me I should decide my own path, Mom. What happened to that? You used to encourage me to follow my own dreams, not Dad’s.”

  My mother hesitated a second before responding. She looked at her husband, then at me. When she spoke, her voice trembled slightly.