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I was in my mid to late teens when Michael Jackson died. I knew he was famous. But I didn’t know why or who he was.
It was just a normal day for me—aside from my co-workers, many of whom were very sad to hear the news. At the time I was on a Johnny Depp kick. Appreciating his works such as The Secret Window, and Benny and Joon—a strange mix of movie genres.
I can tell you for a fact this one was more of a psychological dream than anything else. Though, it was still terrifying.
The evening of Michael Jackson's death, I dreamt for some crazy reason that Johnny Depp had some kind of psychological meltdown and believed that he himself was Michael Jackson.
In this dream, the world was dark. Young girls or women were going missing. In this dream I was merely taking an evening walk. That’s when Johnny abducted me.
From this point on, I will be writing this dream out from a first-person point of view.
You’ve been abducted. You don’t know how long it had been. You don’t know where you are. The room is solid wood. Redwood. It was a kitchen. A silver fridge stood at the back against the left-hand wall of the room. If you were facing the stove, the doors to this kitchen were to your right ,cabinets countertops and even a window over a sink.
Don’t bother getting someone’s attention through that window. Either you’re stuck in a mansion in the middle of nowhere in some forest. Or the window is a fake and you’re trapped deep underground.
Upon waking in this room, you find you’ve been laying on a very rectangular, almost perfectly symmetrical table. You sit up. That’s when you realize your right leg is chained to the left leg of the table. You get off the table. Standing on a white ivory tiled floor. You bend down to see if you can pull the chain off the leg of the table. Which is, to your dread, bolted to the floor. And you can’t tell if the red around the bolts is blood or rust. Or possibly both.
You hide under the table, scared, unsure what to do. You examine the room closely. But the room is large enough that you cannot reach the cabinets or drawers for tools you might be able to use to get yourself out of there.
Time laps away at the day. Or is it night? You haven’t looked out the window to check. All you crave is your freedom.
With no tools within reach, you contemplate gnawing off your foot to escape this room
A man walks into the room. You crawl out of your hiding place. Choosing to feign defiance. Though his back is to you, you can tell the man at the stove is Johnny Depp.
“You’re awake. Good.”
You choose to remain quiet.
He turns to look at you. Taking special note of your glaring at him. “I’ll be nice if you’re a good girl.” He says.
“That depends on what you want.” You reply angrily. Your stance is rigid. You’re scared to find out what happens next.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Johnny asks. “I want you to scream.” He continued. He picked up a metal tea kettle. And placed it onto a lit gas burner. He’s looking at you as he does this. And just before he sets the kettle down, he shakes the kettle in your direction. “You’re going to give me what I want.” He says, before flashing you a sinister snarl.
At this point, Johnny turns to leave. You close your eyes. Breathing through what to do next. You hear the water in the kettle beginning to warm up.
Knowing you’d likely die of blood loss if you did gnaw off your foot. You fearfully resign yourself to your fate.
A phone begins to ring. Looking towards the counter you realize one has materialized on one of the countertops.
Desperate, you stretch yourself as far as you can go. If you can reach that phone, you can call for help.
The kettle begins to whistle. To your dismay, the doors to this torture chamber open.
A different man walks through. In his classic, comfortable "in is own home" demeanor your own dad walks into the room.
You attempt to call out for help. Only to find you’re suddenly mute. He doesn’t seem to notice you. Disregarding your presence entirely no matter what you try to get his attention. Your dad simply checks the phone. As he picks it up, you pray he will leave it within your reach.
To your horror, he puts the phone as far out of reach as possible. Then he proceeds to exit the room.
As he walks out, you continue to try and get his attention. The more you move, the more you try to call out, you realize the more paralyzed you become.
Sleep paralysis. A familiar foe you can’t seem to overcome. The kettle is whistling loudly now. As if beckoning Johnny’s return.
Mere seconds pass, and he does return. With a towel in his hands. He picks up the kettle. Staring at you hungrily, you somehow know, he’s contemplating where to start.
Fear grips you, on instinct you try to jump the table to get away. You’re jolted back by the chain around your leg.
Your screams are silent as sleep paralysis still grips you. The boiling water being slowly poured along your spine.
Your mind is racing in panic and pain and you can’t understand how your body is remaining so calm through all of this.
“Ah, the kettle is still hot,” Johnny says. Placing the kettle itself upon your scalded bare skin.
Your shirt has been removed. You can feel your skin burning. Blistering. This torture goes on for what seems like forever.
Scalding hot water.
The hot metal of that same kettle.
Your skin is raw. You realize now the table was never redwood. Just a sickening mix of blood and water staining the wood its reddish color.
A side note about this dream. Shortly before this dream, I had confided in the internet. I had learned about a neat technique called “dream spinning” where you consciously take control of the events in your dreams. This nightmare is the sole dream in which I have successfully dream spun my way to psychological safety.
Weak, tired, scared, cold and hungry. You remember that you are just dreaming. You remember learning about dream spinning. You close your eyes. You will the chain at your bloodied and blistered leg gone.
The chain disappears.
You weakly climb off the table. Making your way to the doors out of the room. You turn the knob. The doors are locked. You close your eyes again, willing the doors to open.
The doors do indeed open. You run down a decorative hallway. Into darkness. The deeper into the darkness you go, the more you find your body healing.
Before you know it, this horrific chapter has ended. You wake. Thoroughly horrified, but safe, healthy and alive in your own bedroom.