I don’t remember much, aside from being upset. Sherlock (the new BBC one with Benedict Funnyname) and Halloween (again, the new one that Rob Zombie directed).
John was dead. I was John. I wasn’t John. It was confusing. John was on the slab, about to be cremated. I/John watched, in horror. Sherlock was emotionless and indifferent, pretending he didn’t see my/living John’s pain. The horror as I/he asked Sherlock what was wrong with John, why we were burNing him, he was moving on the slab, oh God, Sherlock, he was moving!
Dead John burned. I/living John put on a mask, eyes peering out of a blank face, hiding upstairs in a confusing mansion I’ve never seen.
This mask. There may have been horns.
Sherlock was worried. He hid his emotions. That was Sherlock does.
Visitors came. Harry, John’s alcoholic lesbian sister (unseen but mentioned in the new show). John hid. I wasn’t John anymore. I wasn’t part of things anymore. Sherlock ignored the masked silent man creeping around the mansion, despite Harry asking what was wrong, what was going on.
John was going to kill him. He was going to stab Sherlock to death. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t stop it. I was a nonentity.
Then I was at a theater, a cross between Fenton Village Players and Clarkston Village players. Small. Narrow. A production of Beauty and the Beast falling apart.
John was there, masked. I was John. Someone was going to die. The play was dying on stange.
Then my husband woke me up, saying we had an hour before we had to leave.
I have no idea what any of it meant. But I am disturbed by it.
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