My husband Ben always has crazy dreams. Apocalyptic, gory, boogey-man filled. Occasionally (by which I mean rarely) he posts them online, and I think the categories he’s separated his blog into speak volumes. They are as follows: beards, celebrities, death, demons, dogs, fetuses, James Franco, killer whales, Michael Jackson, school, skin removal, vampires, and zombies. Yes, that right’s right, skin removal. I don’t know what’s going on in that guy’s brain but I always love to hear about it, especially as I hardly ever recall my own dreams.
SO. I made an illustration of one of his recurring childhood nightmares. Here’s the dream, in Ben’s own words:
The earliest nightmare I remember is from when I was six or seven. I would wake up in the top of my bunk-bed and my house was full of wolves. I mean completely full to where I couldn’t even see the floor, they covered every inch of it. Freaked out, and rightly so, I would try to get to my parent’s room across the hall by leaning off the top bunk, grabbing onto the top of my bedroom door and the door frame, and swinging myself out into the hallway, where I landed on a ladder that was set up in the middle of the hall. At this point I would scramble to the top of the ladder, my head pressed against the ceiling, while yelling for my mother, the wolves growling and snapping at my feet. I stayed that way until I woke up.
I had this dream more times than I care to remember, and it always played out exactly the same. I never figured out that once I got into the hallway I would be trapped on the ladder, and maybe I should have tried going out the window instead.