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Battered, with Syrup

Dreamed 1998/11/21 by Chris Wayan (prologue dreamed 11/6)


I'm with Crystal, a married friend who I've suspected for a long time was battered. Now I know. Bruises all over! Her daughter, in her late teens, has decided to make Crystal admit it. So she and I strip off Crystal's clothes and go over her body--and find scars and burns and infected wounds all over!

A girl suspects her mom's battered. She and I make her mom strip. We find bruises and scars all over! Sketch of a dream by Wayan. Click to enlarge.
That's not a bruise--it's chocolate syrup! Sketch of a dream by Wayan.

None looks big enough to be dangerous, except a wide black patch on her lower back. I worry it's gangrene. I sniff it cautiously. It doesn't smell bad. Good, in fact.

Oh. It's chocolate syrup!

Never mind.

In a way Crystal seems to like letting the secret out, letting us fuss over her, touch her gently, not cruelly as she's used to. She gets turned on in fact--has been terribly frustrated, for he never makes love any more. She blushes, embarrassed, but she can't hide it. I get excited too, though I'm not sure if it's toward her or daughter or both--we're all tangled together in this, three as one--no real boundaries.

Neither of them seems to mind a bit, they both seem to like me, horniness and all.

But then, compared to him I'm a saint.

Together we plan to save her from her husband. She should have left him long ago.


The dream returns. Only this time, I'm the battered girl.

I'm on a wooden pier at night. A stiff cold wind. I'm hugging a huge pillow, loose and floppy. I spread it out like a coat, over my back, then flap my pillow-augmented arms, catching the wind. I used to be able to fly a bit, if I used all my strength. Haven't tried in a long time. Maybe the pillow's extra wind-catching will help.

I soar so fast it's obvious I could have flown even without the pillow. With it, I rise so high and easy I'm shocked, even a bit alarmed. The wind's so strong I may get blown out over the water--with this pillow, I'm more in the wind's power, less in my own. I guess I liked rising by my own efforts--I couldn't go so high that I feared falling, and I felt in control. Still, I love being in the air again, even if I'm a bit out of control.

I fly at night over piers in San Francisco. Sketch of a dream by Wayan.
Whoops! Now I'm indoors--a mall. I'm younger now, a skinny, nervous, quiet, cerebral girl. Alone as usual. My classmates call me inhibited and snotty. I call them dumb. I aim to become a singer, though over-sensitivity's a handicap for musicians--and I'm a bared nerve, I know. Still, I practice. Put my hat out and sing, though attention's like torture for me.

The mall doors open and a phalanx of soldiers pour in, in colorful uniforms I know from the news: the bodyguard of a Caribbean dictator visiting our country. Their relentless march is scary even when you know they're just recently trained amateurs--they used to be just accountants and such, but he suddenly decided he needed beefier security and couldn't find enough experts. He kept his original guard and they're training the new batch. Now Mr. Dictator himself comes in, ringed by a much scarier group--the originals. Professional killers, you can feel it. I dream I'm a nervous girl singing in a mall.

His army of accountants suddenly breaks ranks, and runs at me. Before I can do me than shout "Eep!" they grab me, lift me in the air, and carry me over their heads into a conference room. Oh god, gang rape... No. They have a microphone set up on a stage. They settle me down on my side, on thick pads. The dictator and his elite guard enter. He orders me "Sing, girl!"

Furious and scared, I refuse. He insists. He seems clueless why I'd pass up a chance to sing to an audience. Says he plans to take me along as part of his court. Such an opportunity! I try to explain why it's wrong of him to kidnap me... he just doesn't get it.

I'm not just too upset to sing, I don't feel very good. Been taking my aches for granted, but Colonel Something, the dictator's right hand man, comes up and sits on the pad by me and touches me gently. I let him, unsure why I trust him--but I do. Sensitive hands. My head tries to remind me he's a killer. Body says he's safe. He methodically checks my body and finds many bruises and cuts. No wonder I'm so sore! I was beaten by the guards days ago! I've ached for so long, I take the healing wounds for granted--don't even think about the cause any more. Didn't even recall them AS wounds till he pointed them out.

The Colonel's angry; he'd never condone this. Scolds them and the Dictator. "It's not her body I'm worried about, that'll heal! Kidnapping her and beating her could destroy her sense in crowds, cripple her singing--and worse yet, you may have crippled her sexual trust. How can she relax and let a man touch her after this betrayal? Could YOU, if a woman did this to you? You must free her, or she'll get sick."

The dictator finally listens--the colonel's his best advisor. And he's seen it written on my body--written in bruises.

They treat me better now. Introductions, explanations--why they need a singer like me. It isn't just my music, it turns out, but my flying. I turn into a beaver and ride on people's laps in a car. Sketch of a dream by Wayan.

A famous flyer, a guy we all respect, lands his glider on the mall concourse, and offers me a gift. He heard I resumed flying under my own power--once I had a reputation as one of the few people who could do that. Most professionals now use antigravity gliders, built so you only have to lift a fraction of your weight. He has one for me to try out if I like, one that'll lift an unusual amount of cargo, since I'm so strong for my weight. I think about it. I say "can you find me one that has not too much cargo space, not too much antigravity assistance, so I can fly it without if need be, and really zoom with it on?" He grins and says "Ohhhh, yes!" I get the impression he expected such an answer--and has even been planning a custom-built wing for me.

I'm happy. And feel safe--knowing if I'm betrayed again I can fly away faster than anyone can chase me.

I feel so reassured I'm willing to go with the Caribbean group and learn why they need me. Climb with the core group into a big crowded car. Too crowded, with me. "No problem" I say. "I'll shapeshift!" I squirm in, onto the lap of a backseat rider wearing all purple, and I change into a beaver!

Beavers aren't big, so now I fit just fine. When they talk to me, I chirp back in beaverish, though I understand English quite well. I could even speak human tongues in this form, but I don't want to. My way of keeping some privacy yet letting them touch me, pet me, hold me in their laps... with a layer of fur to protect my scars. Physical and emotional.

OK, I'm not a totally healed little beaver... but I'm a whole lot better than a little while ago.


I turn into a beaver and ride on people's laps in a car. Sketch of a dream by Wayan.

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