I had a nightmare.

When I woke in a cold sweat, I picked up my paint set for the first time in a year.
Amazing that it had been so long. It was the second time I abandoned it. The first
was after I spent months creating a 2’x3’ abstract for my mother for Christmas.
She wasn’t happy.

I started sketching lines and immediately painting them. For a while I was caught in
the limbo of insecurity versus terror-fueled inspiration. After the first shapes began
to take form, I focused only on scribbling with my brushes, not even looking at what
was being depicted.

I just kept living my nightmare. I guess it was divine punishment for me to live it twice-
 once in dream, once in retelling. Each time it felt so real. The images in my head weren’t
just pictures, they were scenes. They were moving and bleeding into one another.

When I was in school, I took out a sheet of paper and laid it out before me on the cream
dingy desk. I had heard of just wiggling the wrist to produce shapes and then the subconscious
mind takes over and makes words you didn’t know you were thinking. I attempted it all while
faking paying attention.

Like now, my eyes were beginning to turn red from a lack of sleep. I was wearing a grey shirt.
I was sitting and writing something that had nothing to do with anything else that was going on.

Now I step away.

I leap into the ocean and laugh at those day dreams. I know I could be anywhere but my
mind is in a single dimension. It keeps replicating the same scenario over and over. I try to
distract myself with cigarettes and bitter reality, but it always comes back to the incessant uncanny
patterns.

Sitting.

Grey shirt.

Recounting.

I know it is hot. I hear my friend telling me it’s time to get out. I know I have a fear of getting
sunburned again. I taste my sweat blending with the saltwater. Still, though the waves rock me, I am
not there. I close my eyes and drift, but only for a moment to try to collect my thoughts and focus on
the gravity of the situation.

If careless, I could get pulled out to sea. This is supposed to be a vacation. Trying to stay out of drama.
Sure, I’m just tagging along with a friend’s family, but that was their idea. The parents were fine to idle on a
beach and it was kind of a dream they had. The children were easily bored. I am entertainment. I have to try
not to be a liability.

I swim back to shore and dry off. The day passes uneventfully. I smile and act polite. Later in the evening, I
look at the collection of books on the property. Mostly poets. Some trashy romances. Nothing of interest.

In my room I get cozy in the bed. At least as cozy as I can be in a timeshare beach house that uses window
units. I put headphones on and start listening to Seasons in the Abyss. Somewhere  around “Dead Skin Mask”
I fall asleep. I always fall asleep.
 
It is morning. I think? The Northwest is weird during the summer. I can’t tell if its day or night. It feels like I’ve
slept for some hours. I open the door and go down a flight of stairs. I greet the day on the balcony with bitter
eyes, a sour expression, and smoke. I chuckle a cough as I throw the remnants over the edge onto the grass.

I return inside and see my friend preparing eggs in a silly apron. He greets me and bids me sit. I do. Breakfast,
apparently, is served and halfway through, he says he needs the ketchup and starts clawing at his face. As his
skin peels off layer by layer, I notice I’m not feeling anything. No horror. Maybe I knew. Knew what?

Blood spurts onto his plate and garnishes his half-eaten eggs. His hands stained red and boiling the life of some-
one else away. I look down at my shirt. Great. Stains. When I look back up, a demon is sitting and chewing on an
unspeakable gristly morsel.

He stares into my eyes. With his silver tongue, he demands “paint ponies.”

I smear the reds in front of me across the white with a utensil. The gore yields shapes. I stare. They come to life. A
broccoli stalk-green pony stands on the table looks around then grabs a line and lifts. A pastel Pegasus emerges from
the bloody table cloth. He is sad.

I can’t understand a word they’re saying but they’re really conversing quite animatedly. The pastel one seems to be like
the one taking orders but he or she seems much stronger. If the two were to battle, I think- No. Ponies don’t fight ponies.

The pastel one seems to favor the silverware. After examining many pieces, the Pegasus shows one to the green one. She
nods. They nudge it and a butter dish over to my place setting. I am confused about what they mean. They persist in their
expectant looking.

I pick up the butter knife with bloody hands and grab the stick of butter and start whittling. I pretend I’m a surgeon. Cut a
bit here. Don’t need this organ. What the hell? Look it’s a pony! I present them with a figure. It isn’t convincing, but they
seem pleased. Two strangers exchange a high five in the back of my mind.

The green one is apparently some kind of lich. Her skin is decaying. Makes sense. She pulls off one of her limbs with her
teeth and douses the butter with blue goo, which brings it to life. Three ponies. In less than an hour. This has to be some
kind of record. I think I’m pleased with myself, but feel the shock of everything that has been happening starting to build
as I reach for a cigarette and lean back in the chair.

The blue one is some sort of golem unicorn. It whimpers and makes a face and struggles and grumbles. It lights my
cigarette and singes my face a bit with a beam that spurts out of its horn. It seems worn out. A pony orgasm, perhaps.

I prod it and promise it tacos if it will get me out of here.

I looked at the clock - 10 more minutes left. I examined the experiment. There were some scribbles, but most of the page
was full of my sins, like God was really listening and forgiving. Except he wasn’t. I wasted time until the bell rang. I jammed
my stuff into my backpack and left. The bitterness of my subconscious was heavy upon me as I tried again to force it back
where it belonged.

I finished painting and marveled. Even though it was patchwork, even though it was constructed of nothing but shards that
were horrific and terrible reminders in my eyes, even though it reeked of having not painted since mother scorned my efforts,
I could call it mine-so I did.

I suffered to stare at the painting, but it brought a little piece of sanity with its unspeakable horrors. If I am watching it, I am not
making it. If I am making it, I am not living it. If I am living it, I will soon hold its sorrows in my hands.