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Keys

So many dreams, many of which seem like an assault. I wake disorientated and bleak. In one two of my sisters were there, I was naked and had tried to cover my nakedness with a transparent plastic bag. I wanted clothes and went with one of my sisters to her car for my suitcase. We’ve come as a family to tell you that Leah has been running wild and free, she said. (In my dream Leah was her grown up daughter (not my sister’s but hers). We’ve been swimming with her, she said. I felt a pang that they’d experienced an intimate moment with her and I hadn’t. When I got to my sister’s car, a white bubble car, most unlike hers, and opened the boot it was full of food. In a later dream I was talking to a woman from South America. She said she was from Begonia (it was only when I woke that I realised my subconscious had probably meant Patagonia). A TV was on in the background showing all sorts of horrors including hangings, in one a man’s face filled the screen with a noose around his neck, he had one of the S&M masks on. Then I was in a kitchen with her and several other women. What are you going to cook? she asked and I realised that I had no food. Other dreams were clear anxiety ones with people coming to our door with no masks and then I was in a mass of people at a party, again they were maskless. (That’s understandable, he said at breakfast. And yet, I said, I’m not aware of fretting about it.)

He lost his keys. I had them in my hand, he said. He lost them somewhere in the car. Don’t be cross with me, he said. And I tried. Honestly, I did. He got a hypo and we had to go in to get him something to eat. After lunch we made another attempt to find them. He puts them down, you see. He’s always done it. We emptied everything out of the boot and I heard a chink on the ground. There they were. They’d fallen out of a shoe that is on its way to a charity shop. Phew.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.