No Witches Were Harmed

I’m usually better at realizing I’m dreaming. When I first woke up, I wrote down the setting was Cinthia's house, though as the day went by, I remembered Marisa's. I’m thinking it was neither and both. We do that in dreams, mash people up like soft pieces of clay and interchange their shape as we see fit throughout our nightly feature. We do it seamlessly from scene to scene, sometimes even in the same scene. So, Marinthia’s house sat by a lake. I didn’t really want to be here, but here I stood, forcing myself to socialize at a massive gathering where a bunch of strangers I used to know were excitedly catching up as if not a day had passed. “I know him, but not his name.” I think to myself and keep walking.
On the other side of the room, I catch a glimpse of Chris’s laptop. A dark mix of ‘Stupid Girl’ I’ve never heard before emanates from it loudly while girls I’ve know since childhood sway slowly as if in a trance. I see people who shouldn’t be here, but I’m glad to get to see them one more time. Something doesn’t feel right, and I’m too afraid to approach them. I spot Veronica singing along and I forget about the departed. “These are my people,” I remember now, “They loved me once.”
I feel a sudden drop in temperature; the cold traveling inward, starting from my extremities and meeting at my core. “It’s not the temperature,” I assess my surroundings. I can feel the fear spreading like venom.
It’s daytime, but the sky is dark with clouds and a waterspout is slowly beginning to waltz in the distance. It’s color doesn’t match the sky around it and is rather that of thick, unforgiving smoke.
“The man in black,” I think to myself. I immediately regret being here.
“I should have checked the weather. I should have stayed home. I can’t die here. Who will take care of him,” thoughts on my child.
I watch, frozen and feeling impotent as the cyclone approaches. I try to walk across the room to a safer spot, as if there is one. I struggle with every step. I’ve felt this before, riding on a ferry sailing through choppy waters. The house is lifted by the swirling winds and begins to spin in a pattern that’s nothing short of drunkenly. All I can feel is the heavy weight of my feet. It’s so hard to move. My mind wanders and I imagine bodies being tossed around me. “First the sea gave up her dead.” I recall a line from a novel. Maybe I’ll be one of them. No, that’s not an option. I try to lift my right foot, but it’s as if magnets are holding it in place.
I regain focus as we are dropped abruptly. The rest of the house is gone. It’s as if the only room that remains is the one where I am standing. “We’re so near the edge of the lake,” I think to myself, realizing most of what is left of the property now sits on the water hanging loosely to the bank of the lake. I don’t want to drown. As the structure sinks and my nerves take reign, I think of that house I once saw submerged in water. It was a tourist attraction. “Where was that?” I can’t remember.
Now I’m outside in a hallway leading to communal bathrooms. Maybe a pool? I accept my luck without questioning why I’m no longer in the house, forgetting about all of the people whose life I feared for seconds ago. I’m alone. I can see another cloud of whirling smoke approaching. “Do I hide in the bathroom or run to my car? I need to get home."
I wake up, sweaty and a bit disturbed, and begin to fervently write down bullet points on my purple notepad. This will help me remember. “Cinthia’s house!” I write under a reminder I’ve since long ignored, sure and unaware this will later feel less clear and more like “Cinthia’s house?"

There’s no ending, just this eternal cliffhanger.

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