I have never been in a nightmare world. The closest you can get is nowhere. Where the surrealness envelops you.
You feel guilty, the room around you as ordinary as the daylight oozing in though the window and the cat scraping against your legs. You do not know what you have done, but all the same the guilt is hovering around you, just out of grasp, a boa constrictor preparing for the big squeeze. Idly you speculate about why, who or what the guilt is: in Australian rainforests boa constrictors drop on people out of trees. An insolent drop of it slides down your neck. You feel queasy and look for somewhere to sit. The sofa is an alien, bought for £5.99 buy one get one free in Argos last week. It burps, and prepares for another meal.
The doorbell rings, the dishwasher clattering to the tune of Rule Britannia. You can't tell if it is your guilt or just another salesmen: the CCTV broke last week; some disillusioned youngster making off with it. You lope along the hallway with the swaggering stagger of years past, the halogen lighting softly burning anyone who passed through. It is completely still, which is odd.
A guy bursts out of the cupboard, a knife held aloft like the dead goldfish it so clearly isn't. Waves of indecisiveness sweep under you; he appears to be shocked into inaction. What should you do, you wonder? The knife leaves the palm of his hand and dances around his fingertips for a multitude of seconds before progressing on its journey towards you. The guilt is beginning to seep through to you.
The boa constrictor is stirring, it has spotted a snack in the turtle soup that is curling around its toes. The shame begins to take form, as the rotary dryer spins into action and you proceed towards the indecipherable handwriting that is the door. The dishwasher changes melodies to Waltzing Matilda, while your 'in' and significant mind puts up barriers to save you from the torrent threatening to incinerate your life. 'I didn't mean' flashes and collapses under 300 cold, sticky, asphyxiating truths; 'I only' suffers the same fate. 'At least I' suffers a little longer, holding out till the final blow.
Crack