Doll's Little book of Nightmares

Stigma

2010-05-19T16:44:00.000-07:00

Two deep cuts. One on each foot.

I can touch and play with my dead skin.

It doesn't hurt at all,

but I consider uncomfortable to think

on perforated feet.

Picture

2010-05-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

I've got a wounded shoulder.

Don't remember how.

Memories shiver up and back

into my greenish crystal eyes.

My little dress torn into ashes

My little shoes burst into flames.

Maybe it was you, you little bastard,

We plastic dolls, we're just a game.

A toy for girls to play as mother

as mother plays another game...

Undated II

2009-10-20T16:27:00.000-07:00

I

We are laying on my grand/grandmother's house darkest room's bed. I remember being in this room before.I am a child.

On top of the bed, a big barroque virgin paiting hangs to the wall. Her face is delicately sad and makes me think of a woman that have just lost a child. A silent desperation though.

Sometimes it made me feel scared. Anyhow,this time fear is not the feeling I can percieve. It is maybe because my brothers are here beside me, while only candle light is our main source to avoid blindess.

Suddenly, despite darkness, a bee gets in the room. Damn! I've never liked honey!.

A quick move, makes me a caterpillar cocoon made of blankets.

II

I'm standing outside the house again. Not a child but a woman now. The house is empty. By the dust on the windows and the lavender smell, abandoned I would say. Inside I know, I have forgotten a suitcase.

I must find a way of getting it out, even if the girl that lives in there, doesn´t let me out.

I have a gun.

III

I manage to get in and cross the patio. I climb the stairs trying not to fall before my mission is accomplished. Finally I stand before my grandfather's room. I can still see those ugly blue velvet courtains. I can still feel his cheap smell in my nose.

I look for the suitcase undeneath the bed. Inside the closet.

As soon as I find it I plan to get out. But as I lift my eyes, I can see her dark big eyes staring at me without blinking.

Do not leave me...

No...

I shoot.

Her little body falls down between the closet and the bed. Pretty thin blood threads paint her chest and her back. I should go.

I walk away through the door. I disappear while she stands up again showing in her little body, scars like mosquito bites.

Undated

2009-07-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

The same dream again.

Why can't I make it stop?

I live at south, in a little white wooden house in the middle of the woods. My daughter lives with me. She is so small and blond that I wonder sometimes if I’m really her mother.

Sometimes, while I’m in the kitchen I let her play with the sticks she finds over the grass; somethimes she builds little houses with them; some others she likes to make the ants mad, but now I just see her run. She runs away so fast, so deep, so faraway from me; so far away until she becomes just a spot beyond my nose.

I run. Perhaps not fast enough. I call her name. Perharps not loud enough. I can only hear soft cricks and cracks down my feet. Over my head, maybe somekind of bird.

I walk along the blinding forest moving the branches with my hands. I am aware that they have thorns because my hands are bleeding.

Finally, I find an old rotten criking craking house. It smells like moist and fungi.

Rain does that to wood.

There are no doors; no windows either; no painted walls. Despite all this I know. I know this place is not alone There is a man who lives here.He stands on the porch wearing a blue and white squared shirt; jeans and boots; wide belt, hat and dirty braids on his gray hair.

Mr. Bad Man: he is a reapist. I know him well.

I have to get in. I have to get my daugther out of there. I walk towards the house and I can see her through a hole…I crawl like worms do until I can grab her.

Mr. Bad Man knows I am there, but he does nothing. My opportunity to run is someway unreal. I know that he will follow us until she can get her. Until he can penertrate her skin. So here I am again running. Running with her in my arms, until we can see the highway. Nearby there is a place were I can look for help; for someone to protect us.

What I find is a large alley with a pink plastic ceiling that moves with the wind. It is so hot in there. To many people talking. I ask for help. I speak. Perhaps not loud enough. No one listens.

In the meantime my girl runs away again.

I know she is running towards him and I can feel my legs moving desperately. I can feel my hands pushing things and people around me to catch her.

She is in a garden straight ahead from where I am. I look into her eyes and I hold her again. High above I hear loud voices. I hear them but I don’t want to understand what they say.

We have gotten into a forbidden area, surrounded by military forces. If we move, they will shoot…

January 2008

2009-06-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

I get in. She is there. I've nev er seen her before. I know its her. She and I inside of public restroom, that seems uncleaned...I can smell years of shit and urine.

A sink, a bathtub.

Inside the bathtub a shapeless corpse. Little pieces of greenish flesh still hanging from /her//his/

/ its/bones.

A mirror. I can't see her face.

Soaking your head in the water, waiting for you to drown or choke, is not the best way to kill yourself anyway.

I once thought about it myself. I didn't have the guts I guess, or I didn't have the time to grab the gun or the rope.

We get out from there. She holds the corpse in her back.

A fleshless turquoise baby.

The alley is wide. It is hard to get used to see when lightbulbs are distant and yellow.

Opaque.

Different smell outside.

The first impression of blood inside your nose. Outside your bellybottom.
As we walk the smell grows around me , as ivy grows around trees. Two feet from us, the sick show beggins. People jump in large groups to the railways. They line up like children in school.

In the tunnel, the subway goes back and forth as a rubber. Bodies fly as broken feathers. One arm here, a leg there. Blood spills from them as if they were living brushes, painting carefree reddish spots and drops over a wallpaper...

It recalls to me so much of a Jackson Pollock...