Zoloft Dream #4

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I was just stumbling through some house, talking to various people inside and outside in the huge backyard. Some of the people I went to high school with. Some I only knew in the world of the dream. No coherence to any of the conversations.  No excitement.  And no tension either.

A door slammed shut behind me. I was locked inside some structure in the backyard, like a fort, but more glossy and painted white. All I could do was bang on the door. I kept shouting until someone opened it slowly from outside.

As I stepped out, I saw the crowd – all the people from before just standing there. Watching me. I scanned their faces in slow-motion. Their smiles indicated this was a surprise party for me.

Someone explained it to me – the prank everyone here was in on.

I’d been hanging with this crowd, in this house, completely out of it. I hadn’t realized the slippage of time because they were secretly drugging me with various pills. All for this short film they were working on….It began to sink in. I was an unwitting star in the film. Discreet cameras captured footage of me doing things I’d been prompted to do. Things that, in the context of the film, would advance the narrative. Ordinary things, God I hoped only ordinary things. The footage they showed me was me looking around in the backyard for something someone had lost.

My breath was short. I couldn’t speak. For God knows how long, I had been out of touch and under the influence of pills I didn’t realize I was on, being used as a puppet for this project.

And now, here they were, revealing the hoax to me on camera. Someone handed me a microphone. To them, this is all in good fun; We sure got you! Now, don’t be a bad sport. Take the microphone and say something. Have a drink with us.

I shook as I spoke into the mic. I couldn’t articulate anything.  I was terrified/violated/angry/frightened/isolated from anyone who might have helped me.

A rush of thoughts about taking police action hit me accompanied by a nasty afterthought – No one will believe me.

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