NANCY AND KIT
Dreamed 1994/1/3 by Chris Wayan
My environmental illness is better, but I'm still not working or dating. Before bed, I try to list some safety rules that would let me sustain a relationship without getting sick again (I'll worry about a job later--love first!) But when I try, all I come up with are the rules I have NOW--and written out, they're deadly.
I'm back at Psychodrama. Nancy is in the center, on stage. She's a dancer in her late twenties, gorgeous, small, dark blonde, with the raw fierce eyes and hurt face of a James Dean teen. She often comes across as a sex kitten, a little butterfly--she's good at hiding both her brains and volcanic feelings. She's been fighting uterine cancer, and we all suspect it's linked to her ultra-femme style. She picks lovers who treat her like a girl. Daddies. I have rescue fantasies about her.
Nancy does a scene in which she takes on her little-girl spirit fully, back before all her boyfriends convinced her she was mere entertainment. She lets her hair down, flowing to her waist, and tears her clothes off and dances round the theater. Suddenly beauty and sex and play and dancing her feelings come alive as the most important things in the world, innocent and powerful again, before the boys made it all about THEM.
Nancy spins and leaps in spirals...
...and then a hulking man leaps into the charmed circle and grabs her and won't let go. Everyone freezes. She struggles to escape him, crying in fear, flashing back to childhood abuse. He shakes her in anger--he wants her, wants the sexy magic, and she's rejecting him! She shrieks in terror. He pulls his arm back and hits her in the face, hard, a roundhouse swing.
He's broken the safety rules. Several men stand up. Yet they fear to provoke him more: Kit's rages are notorious. No one steps in. He hits her again. One man finally tries to wrestle Kit away. One blow throws him across the room. Kit's stronger than any of us.
I get up. Scared, but I have to divert his attention. Squeeze between them, tears streaking my face, and yell "Kit, Kit, don't, I can't fight you, you're too strong, don't hit her, Kit."
He looks at me, steaming and gasping, so on fire he can't speak. He gestures at his throat, strangely: drawing a diagonal line. Repeats it. Confused, I echo his gesture, and find blood on my hand. My eyes widen and I touch it again. Bleeding. He still can't talk, the fit is still pounding through him, but his eyes have changed. He thinks he did this to me!
But we hardly even scuffled. He didn't injure me: it's just a boil that popped or a small cut that re-opened.
Later, I realize I was so scared, I almost called Kit by the wrong name--I nearly called him George. If I'd misnamed him... who knows what he'd have done?
NOTES NEXT MORNING
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