In typical
dream fashion, I find myself in the thick of a lecture I know has been going on
for a while. The lecturer, a woman, has instructed us to collect something or
other from the front. Having done so, I head for my seat, checking my phone and
that’s when the commotion occurs.
A
high-pitched yelp, a flash of light and a shutter sound all happen in a split
second. A few people run away and I see one of my classmates clutching her
chest.
“What
happened?” the lecturer asks her.
“Someone
pinched my boob!” the student replies. “They took a picture!”
Coolly, the
lecturer turns toward me, still standing there, phone in hand.
“Was it
you?” she asks.
“No,
madam.” It is plain she doesn’t believe a word of it.
She grabs
my phone, backs up a few steps and asks where the picture folder is. I tell her
there are three different ones.
“This is
what happens when you are a porn addict,” she says disdainfully.
I bristle
inward but maintain a civil exterior. “Should you find any porn on my phone,
you are free to keep it.”
She’s game.
And since she says she needs witnesses, she somehow hooks up my phone to the
projector.
“So do you
often molest women and keep pictures as trophies?” she asks, navigating to the
first picture folder. The students laugh. I say nothing.
The first
picture appears on the huge canvas. It’s my mom and dad, holding hands.
She scrolls
through the twenty or so family pictures, exits the folder without a comment
and moves to the next.
The first
picture in this one elicits a triumphant smile from the lecturer. It’s a
picture of a woman wearing minimal clothing; just a training bra and body
shorts. Her toned body glistens with a sheen of sweat. As the lecturer notices
the dumbbells the woman holds in each hand, her smile wilts. She gives me a
calculating look as she scrolls to the next picture. Fitness enthusiasts appear
mid-workout one after the other. The male figures elicit sighs from the women
in attendance, and vice versa. The various captions leave no doubt on the
nature of the pictures.
Exiting the
folder, the lecturer goes “So you want to look like one of them, huh? Just so
you can land one of the ladies?”
“Please do
not enter the last folder, madam.” I say, face blank.
The
triumphant smile returns. The class jeers. “And why not?” she asks with the smugness
and bloodlust of a gladiator asking his opponent why they should be spared.
“You may
have already decided I am a despicable person, but opening the last folder will
make you one in the eyes of everybody here.”
Whispers
break out in the lecture hall. She gives me another look of disdain and opens
the last folder.
I hold my
breath and let my vision go out of focus. A deathly silence falls. I know the
number and order of the pictures in the dream, because it is the same number
and order in waking life.
A young
girl, with short-cropped hair, large eyes and her tongue sticking out. She is
clearly too thin. She looks right at the camera from her bed.
The same
girl, seated on a chair. It’s obvious she is being held up only by the straps
visible across her chest. Still, she smiles.
The same
girl, sitting against her brother’s chest. Still smiling.
The same
girl, lying on her back, perfectly still, perfectly straight, hands on her
belly. Dressed in an ornate white dress, white stocking, white gloves, and
white hat. Eyes closed. She is not sleeping.
The next
three pictures depict the same scene from different angles.
The last
picture is of a small coffin being lowered into the ground.
I
wordlessly take my phone and return to my seat.
The dream
jumps to the end of the lecture, as I get out and try to disappear. My lecturer
intercepts me.
“I am
sorry,” she says. “I did not know.”
I say
nothing.
“I feel
horrible,” she goes on. “How can I make it up to you?”
“Bring her
back,” I say, walking away.
I wake up.
