Yesterday morning I woke up completely refreshed – and I found that I was underneath one of my king-size pillows. I was a bit smothered under the pillow and down comforter but it felt comforting to me, and reminded me of when I used to sleep with a very heavy Korean “mink” blanket. There once was time when I couldn’t sleep unless I had some weight pressing down on me; even when it was very warm I had to sleep with a proper blanket completely covering me.
So last night I intentionally buried myself under a few pillows and drifted off, thinking to tumble into some more blissful deep sleep. Quite the contrary. I dreamed that an assailant stabbed me deeply in my chest and then again in my gut with a serrated bread knife. I was horrified but determined to escape – so I spent the rest of the dream fleeing from this man, running barefoot down slushy, icy streets in Montreal – clutching my chest and stomach. I made it down into the subway and then back to somebody else’s apartment when I awoke in a total panic. The pressure against my chest was from my pillow and I had overslept my alarm by an hour.
*gasp*
The nightmare was surely more a result of reading Thomas McGuane’s short story, “Tango” in the Dec 1 New Yorker topped off by an overindulgence in coffee yesterday than the pillows – but what a scare. This is why I don’t watch scary movies: I don’t like being scared. I am a little afraid to go to sleep tonight.
