I dreamt that I was thirsty. This dream, like many others, had different scenes, different layers. In each, all I longed for was the crisp refreshing taste of cool water. With each gulp, the fire in my throat quenched only to be reignited after a monment’s pause and I see myself reaching for another bottle. I am surrounded by people I know. Acquaintances and former colleagues with only one friend in sight. The mood is easy and not as tense as it should be given that I had abandoned them only a few months ago.
It all started with Hermione, Ron and Harry. I was asked to join them for dinner. But in true Hermione fashion, the dinner was only a ploy to let me into a much bigger plan. There were people at the window, trying in futility to peer through the stained glass of the steeple. It was almost as if I was part of an elite club that the people outside only wished they could be a part of. Then came more people.
People I knew and had come to love and hate in fairly equal measure. Almost unrecognisable. Aged by unhappiness but still able to muster enough decency to be cordial. After all, they had all met my decision to leave them with more bitterness that it too shocked them. Making small talk has never been too difficult for me. I exchanged pleasantries and then started to drink. The first bottle went through me. I did not see that coming. I reached for another and this time, tried to control the speed with which it filled up my lungs with cold familiar comfort. The more I drank, the more I thirsted. An unquenchable fire was brewing and I was unsure of how to control it. There was neither pain nor discomfort. I knew I was dreaming as I often do a few minutes into slumber when I find myself in uncharted territories.
By the third bottle, I had had enough to know that the scene would change. Filling my thirst had in turn filled up my bladder and so I was transported back to the ground floor bathroom of Connelly house where I was met with a few more familiar faces. I looked through the stalls where I had learnt to take five minute showers, overcoming the cold of the harmattan that bit a little harder up north. Where I had spent my afternoons reading a novel on the seats because I enjoyed the peace and quiet, away from restless teens chatting endlessly before succumbing to sleep, a mandatory siesta right after lunch.
Safe once again in familiar territory, I took down my pants as I proceeded to take my throne and release myself. This dream sequence I do not find scary, I do not find strange. I know this scene. I had danced to this tune before, beguiled by the familiar walls in a way that my physical body could relate and follow suit. I know this dream sequence. But I am no longer 5 years old or 11 or 15 or 19. The coldness of the seat and the writings on the wall are not enough to seduce me to release myself anymore. I know where I am and what I need to do. I am thirsty and so I pinch myself twice and get up from bed heading straight for my bathroom to take a piss.
