Saved by the Bell 3/27/2022

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Has anyone ever told you a story about a story?  If the answer is no, I get it. I am not sure anyone has ever done as much to me either.  But today, there is a good chance that is what is going to happen here.  I had a bit of a unique scenario occur when attempting to find a topic and what happened in this disconcertingly strange brain of mine was so unique that I felt like I had to tell you about it.  I am aware that what I find intriguing will not necessarily be so to any and everyone, but I suppose that is a risk I take with anything that I write so I don’t suppose today will be any different.  I can’t warn you about what exactly to expect in the content you are about to experience. I guess as I relay the information that my brain came up with, we will take this journey together. Everyone hang on.

It started with something that I very frequently find myself doing that annoys the ever-loving snot out of me.  I know that was a less than eloquent saying but it accurately exhibits the fervor with which I feel the sentiment.  I woke early. Just enough before my alarm went off that going back to sleep would take enough time and effort to give me only minutes before I actually had to wake and then the whole period of time from the early waking to the appropriate waking would just one obnoxious chore. I do this most mornings and I loathe it.  I am not sure if my body is telling me I should be getting up just a small amount earlier or what exactly my internal clock’s message is, but I don’t like it.  Anyway, I had done my traditional too early waking and the first thoughts that came to mind were about what I was going to write.  Not a thing came to mind.  Apparently after that fruitless question to myself I very quickly drifted back into a deep sleep. 

Now, I sleep with the tv on.  I need it to keep things from being too dark or too silent. My imagination is far, FAR too skilled to be left to its own devices in silence and blackness.  If that occurs, before you know it, I will be seeing and hearing things that are not there, so I need stimuli to keep this brain of mine from running amuck. But I digress. So, after my pondering briefly of what to write I go back to sleep and I am not sure if some line of dialogue came from the tv, it seems to my subconscious that it did, but one can never really be sure, and this line set my mind to flight.  The line was something like, “It seems like this would be a good time for an engagement”.  Interestingly, though I was sleeping I was aware that I was dreaming and therefore was commented on the line I heard that line and agreed with it. Sure, happy times and sparkly jewelry, an engagement sounds like a lovely thing to write about, but I don’t have one immediately on hand to reference.  It was at this point that somewhere inside my head, a scene began to develop.

I am not sure of the time frame, but it was certainly not recent. I was in what was most assuredly a very old home. I had on a dress that I only saw briefly in a mirror, but it was long and full and certainly not of this era. I was surprised by this and commented to myself that while I was fine with the idea of an engagement story, I had no intentions of playing the star role in it.  I balked so much at me being the sentient protagonist of this dream because well, for lack of a better term, the whole thing was foreboding.  I walked around these rooms that were decorated in lavishly ornate furnishings likely of the Victorian era. It was definitely the South; I could feel the humidity.  There was Spanish moss hanging from large oaks outside the windows.  I am wandering this house in my dream and all the while arguing with my apparently independently operating thought process insisting, I didn’t want to be in this story.  Everything was so heavy. My dress was uncomfortable.  The thick air was sitting oppressively on my chest.  The rooms smelled of age and unease and though they were filled with lovely things they felt empty of the most important aspects of a home.  I didn’t feel any comfort or warmth, at least not the kind that should be associated with a welcoming place to live.

I admit the setting was pregnant with potential to produce quite a tale. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind hearing it but not if it was going to be mine. I could feel it. I could feel that this wasn’t going to be some flowery love story. This had southern gothic written all over it.  I could tell by the way my brow furrowed as I looked out the window at the handsome man standing under the trees with the intense and almost disconcerting face. No, this was not going to be for the faint of heart. Though it was hot and oppressive, the sun wasn’t shining.  There were dark clouds in the distance.  All this heat and tension were brewing a storm and there I was stuck in the middle of all of it.

I woke not long after.  No, not much happened in that miniature dream but it was so real.  The dampness on my skin and the thick air were real. The way the woven fabric of my dress pressed roughly against my skin was real.  The way every aspect of the entire scenario pointed to coming turmoil that might make for a fascinating read but a less than thrilling experience to live through was so utterly real.  This was probably the first time I was happy for my alarm to go off.  I was all too pleased to step out of the drama in which I was about to be embroiled.  I did end up with something to write about though and I just told you a story about a story without telling you a story.  Whether doing so was interesting or annoying I suppose is up to you but, I can say that I am certainly happy I got out when I did.