Dreams and Nightmares

In 1994 Lacey had a horrific nightmare.

“I was dying of a cigarette overdose.” she recalls. “I laid there on the ground dying.” She thinks. “I woke-up the next morning mortified. I had never smoked a cigarette my entire life.”

“You had also just had serious surgery.” says Lem.

“Did I almost die?” Lacey wonders.

“What do you remember?” asks Joe.

“Weirdly I recall almost seeing a bright light and if my father was born in 1894…feeling the presence of my mother?” says Lacey.

“And then a week or two later you dreamt of overdosing and dying?” asks Lem.

“Yes.” She thinks. “I was horrified of drugs and cigarettes after that. I mean, they genuinely terrified me.”

Lacey goes downstairs and smells Guerlain Jicky?

“That dream and the happy one years later have never left me.” she says.

“You’re still terrified by memories of that dream?” asks Lem.

“It felt…like…Hell.”


“Like a living Hell where I couldn’t stop making a fool of myself.” says Lacey.

“Yeah right! You’re too feminine! You’re hyper-feminine! Which means you’re a gay bitch! A butch-bitch in disguise. And you’re dumb. And ugly. And poor. And an alien. And a prostitute. And a witch. And a…”. They pause to think of another good insult. It takes them a second. Lacey waits to hear the next zinger. “You’re boring!”

“Let’s just ignore that.” says Lem.

“You don’t remember anything from before age four. And your salvation is impossible then. You couldn’t remember being 2. That’s scientifically accurate impossible no matter what you genuinely remember otherwise.” says the hater.

“Even if I shocked my parents with what I recalled?” protests Lacey. “And they made a big deal out of it?”

“No! You make shit up. And you’re poor and ugly! And, and, and if you’re not you’re a reptilian alien!”

“The thing is…you felt like you were dying of an overdose in that dream?” asks Lem.

“Yes.” says Lacey.

“You’re a gray reptile!” yells the hater.

Lacey literally smells Jicky again. It’s so…sweet.

“I’m not an alien or a reptile. Or a prostitute. None of those.” says Lacey, trying not to laugh.

“Relax! No one thinks any of that.” he says kindly. “You don’t have haters. You’re…just…insane.” says the hater.

Lacey smells Jicky again so thickly she can almost taste it when she opens her mouth. Wait! …She does taste it? Like if someone had just sprayed perfume in her area? A tiny ball of light darks past her eye.

“You shouldn’t…think. You’re conjuring demons by…having…feelings.” says another hater.

“How am I conjuring demons by being sad?” asks Lacey.

“You’re supposed to worship me!!!!!” shrieks a hater at the top of their lungs.

She smells Jicky again. It makes her laugh…

“Okay. Tell that ghost I’ll consider it. Please.” Lacey tells God to tell the ghost who keeps spraying Jicky?

She smells Jicky yet again.

It’s been years since she’s owned Jicky.

…Lacey walks around her dark house sniffing that air looking for the origin of the Jicky. She runs into one spot near the stairs that smells of Jicky. But then it fades.

She doesn’t feel alone. But she doesn’t feel uneasy.

She trusts God. What else can she do.

“Does Bulls Blood remind you of Jicky?” asks a woman.

“Yes.” Lacey realizes.

Did Lem just walk across her living-room?

“Anyway, yes. I wonder if I had a reaction to the anesthesia during surgery?” thinks Lacey.


“You know I need to try Jicky parfum.” she muses next.

“You’ve been avoiding that memory in that dream though ever since?” asks Lem.

“How did I dream your death…through my eyes…at age ten?!” asks Lacey.


“At age ten…” she ponders.

“If it was…possibly because you were molested.” says Louis. “Molestation is pure evil, of course. But it’s also…obviously…dangerous.”

“How so?” asks Lacey.

“It opens portals, possibly.” says a ghost. “And changes the fabric of the reality around the person or in connection to that person who was abused.” He thinks. “And it makes the abuser…blinder. Oftentimes. Far blinder to their own footing. Making it easier for them to be demolished.”

“Is that what ‘The Shining’ is about?” asks Lacey.

“Grow-up!” says a pedophilic hater condescendingly, unaware of their own grave spiritual illness. “That’s not right! You’re a white-trash, hick!”

“Yes. That’s what it’s about.” answers someone.

“Demolished?” asks a witch.

“Are you a good or a bad witch?” asks a ghost, flippantly. Creepily.

Lacey smells Jicky again.

“Neither. I’m a…witch.” they say.

“Demolished as in they might not retain their personality after death.” says Lacey. “Or much of it. As in, they’ll not cease to exist. But they’ll be ripped apart from the inside out. Or they’ll go to a very literal Hell.” She thinks. “Something akin to dementia, only forever and for the purpose of preparing them for Heaven.”

“God did create the Nazis. I suppose in their innocent moments, should those moments have existed, their best thoughts were a reflection of Him.” says a dead Jew.

“Can you imagine what the Nazis must have endured, should the Catholics be right?!” smiles a Nazi.

Joe Kennedy Sr. laughs.

Lacey smells Jicky yet again. Strongly.

“So how do I close these…portals?” she asks.

“If there’s an Illuminati we made an enormous mistake in contacting you spiritually.” says the Illuminati hater. “It’s like a Pandora’s Box. Or a spiritual tsunami.”


“What was behind those walls?” asks someone.

Lacey almost feels like she could get a headache from the perfume. Even though it goes away when she concentrates on it.

“It’s such an almond note!” she muses. Then she smells Jicky so clearly.

She thinks of the Johnstown Flood. Imagines her sofa floating around her living-room.

Realizes that the kids who downed are fine. It’s the evil that suffers…if God exists. And for God to exist…He must be loving or His power is futile…

“What’s behind the walls? Demons. Curses. Ghosts.” says Lacey floating around her living-room in her mind. “Diseases. Famines. Earthquakes. Storms. Evil. But not so much evil it brings death. Just enough to destroy our happiness.”

“But that’s superstition.”

“Only when it doesn’t seem real enough. Then, when it feels real, it becomes a problem to untangle.” says Lacey.

“How do you untangle the lies of a woman who experienced her twin flame’s suicide at age 10?” asks a hater.

“You don’t make sense.” says Lacey.

They play dumb. Go numb. To escape responsibility this side of Hell.

“Smart choice, Joyce!” says a demon trying to sound cheerful. “Shake-it!”

“It’s just. We feel…lazy?” asks a hater. “And…nobody knows us. But we get what we want. They say we don’t connect. But we do, secretly. Just a little. Just enough to make it worth it. Just enough to keep being…evil.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” says Lacey.

“But you don’t play.” says the hater. “Because you’re afraid of Hell?”

Lacey thinks and smells Jicky.

“I do have empathy. But I don’t feel accepted enough by most of humanity over the age of 14 and under the age of 80 to care.” says Lacey.

“To care about what?”

“To care about the stupid shit.” says Lacey.

“Like trying to fit in?”

“With cultural bullshit?” asks Lacey.

“You hate our…choices.” says a Boomer.

Lacey laughs. Smiles.

“You acted like there was something wrong with you.” says a hater.

“Because I objectively worried there was, until lesbians kept accusing me of being a lesbian too too much. And so did pedophiles. And…I had to force myself to let myself see that I’m neither. At all.” says Lacey. “My instinct is to take responsibility for everything evil that’s ever happened almost. But turns out I’m not Eve. And I’m not Adam. And I’m not responsible for most evil things necessarily.”

“You must feel powerful.” says a hater.

Lacey looks at him with annoyance.

“Are you really that stupid?” she asks. “It’s not like that. I feel powerful in a way? But only because you decide to keep thinking the dumbed thing you can seemingly by choice?”

“You think I’m dumbing myself down? And if I took responsibility for my own sinful nature I’d grow more easily as a person…and see you more clearly too, actually?” asks the hater.

“Yes. It’s just silly. …What is it about seeing me for who I am that’s so gruesome?” she asks.

“I think…sometimes…you seem…boring.” says a hater. “And it’s more fun to imagine you’re…evil than to let you be sad and bookish and all the traditionally normal things other than being able to talk to supernatural beings, possibly.” says a female hater.

“Why don’t you care though?” asks another hater.

Three bored psychologists with big bad atheist beliefs that they feel gives them, “big dick energy” read the blog and theorize.

“Is she a narcissist? Is she a schizophrenic? It’s all so atypical. But I can’t fit it together in my framework. Weird!”

They fume. Devoid of almost any empathy and little humility they fume. Unable to laugh. Taking themselves very seriously they fume.

“Do you…write…to torture people like us?” one asks in a medicinal, threatening tone.

“What if I do? What if you genuinely deserve it? What if you’re extremely evil and useless?” she responds. “Are you an adult enough to honestly contemplate that? Or did I just burst your narcissistic bubble and now you want to kill me?”

She blows smoke in his face like in the movies!

“Or…did I just make you want to kill yourself? Don’t.” she says.

“I don’t want to kill myself.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t.”

“Do you honestly smell Jicky?” one of them asks.

“It really does smell like Jicky. …And please, if my father was born in 1894, don’t…hate yourself? Someone has to do your job who has a conscience. And if you have one, good for you.” She thinks. “Sincerely.”

“Have you ever met an adult who you didn’t have to parent?” asks a Boomer.

“No.” She thinks. “Other than some ghosts.”

“When you’re dead, should ghosts exist…I don’t think you’re going to seem dead.” says a hater trying to imitate her. But being serious.

“Why can’t you pivot? And start making love to Lem?” asks a hateful Millennial psychologist.

A witch laughs.

“Why do you like witches so much?!” asks a Christian Millennial.

A Boomer laughs.

“I empathize with their pain.” says Lacey. “Even of what they do is wrong.”

“Their pain?” the Christian asks.

“The real one’s can’t unknow what they know.” says Lacey. “And it’s not like they can turn off their awareness. I can’t. I’ve tried.” She thinks. “I’m physically smelling Jicky.”

“You’re crazy!” says a hater.

“Not necessarily.” says Lacey.

“So, basically, if these ghosts or demons have literally saved your life…or you’ve experienced it that way…we’re asking you to cut off the only support system that you have?” asks a Christian hater.

“Why? Are you plotting something?” asks Lacey.

He acts shocked. “I just think they’re demons.”

“They could be. Are you hoping to destroy me first?” she asks.

He grows silent.

Someone imagines his Hell being going from one person he hates to another in determination admits the flanes but always getting there too late to torture them. The demons of Hell torturing them first.

“You better watch out. Pray for God to figure you daily.” says Lacey to the Christian. “I’m serious. You might be sinning too.”

“Are you trying to make a sick burn there or are you bloody serious?” asks a Brit.

“I’m serious.” she says with concern.

“Why don’t you care?” asks his wife. “And why don’t you go crazy with lust for Lem?

“First of all, I care in an empathetic way. I do care. I just don’t care in the way that other people do about being accepted in certain ways. Other than for functional purposes.” She thinks. “And no. Why would I write such genuinely personal things on a blog?”

“But you’ve hinted at them.”

“I want proof!” says a hater.

“You do? Huh. Well, sorry. That’s not going to happen. I’m not going into detail. That’s not this blog.” says Lacey.

“You’re right. Every hateful comment is always obtuse too.” says a hater, laughing.

“If you’re Louis’ soulmate…it’s the coal.” says Pat Wilson. “And yes, you should wear Jicky.” She clears her throat. “If it’s Michael you’re a Rockefeller for eternity.” she says with gravity. She stares at Lacey for emphasis. “If it’s Lem, he’s likely hurt a lot of people. And if it’s Harold-“ she laughs. “Well…Hemingway wrote you very badly.”

Zelda laughs.

“Oh dear.” says Scott.

“Did Harold write about sex well?“ asks a hater.

“I highly doubt that.” says Lacey.

“My word. And if you’re Joe’s it’s the Kennedy curse.” laughs a Boomer hater.

“Are we real though?” asks Lacey. “Or is this entirely fictional with aspects of truth?”

“Are you real?”

“Yes.” She smiles. “Unless I need to hide. Do I need to hide? If I need to hide, then I’ll let God answer you.”