I don’t wear necklaces. I’m not sure why I’m being required to wear one now. But they want me to teach, and I need a necklace to do it. Everyone else has one. They’re not very big, made of a length of leather doubled back on itself, drawn through a coin multiple time through the four holes dug past its rugged silver exterior.
They pointed to the man with the necklaces.
I walked up to him and he smiled. I was nervous, but because I was about to take on a class without feeling very prepared. That he was so at ease and happy at that time made me even more nervous. Didn’t he understand the way humanity lacked stability? His dark brown hair looked almost black, while his eyes were deep and dark, without color but carried a small shine. They brimmed with excitement. In short, this man was gorgeous. And he was wearing many necklaces.
“Could I have a necklace?” I asked. He smiled. I waited.
“I don’t hand them out. You have to take the necklace,” he explained. He brought his chin forward, revealing his neck further, almost like he was simply offering himself. Why? I just needed to teach, not go through a social ritual with sexual overtones.
I stepped forward, but he nudged me closer. Fine. I brought my hands over his shoulders, but he shook his head. I brought my hands back and drew them under his arms, reaching up towards the back of his neck. Suddenly the world disappeared, our world was green and blue and red all over, swirling and exploding and attacking and retreating. Suddenly he had no shirt, but I knew this only because I could feel him. He had his neck extended over my right shoulder, I couldn’t see any part of him. The muscles in his back were bristling with excitement. I quickly undid the knot and loop of a necklace, clutched the leather, and jerked back. I felt confused, lost. He held his smile, and nodded where I was expected to walk. My class was that way. The world had returned to normal.
Later in the dream, I found out the man had died. Another man chased me down the streets, attempting to kill me with a variety of objects. I was able to spend my entire night, jumping fences and dodging projectiles and disarming a gun from this crazy man. He blamed me for the death of his friend, for the loss stability in the world, for the pain he felt every day. YOU ARE GUILTY. YOU ARE GUILTY. YOU ARE GUILTY. he shouts and shouts and shouts. The streets and walls echo his accusation. Nothing I saw changes what he says. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m guilty.