I don't really publicize it, but I have terrible nightmares sometimes. I've talked to my psychologist about them, but they just won't stop. I haven't had any for awhile...until last night. It was so terrible that my screams woke up Sabine, who is a ridiculously deep sleeper.
It didn't start out as a nightmare, though. At first, it seemed like a dream of mine finally came true...
I was a première danseuse with le ballet de l'Opéra National de Paris who was dancing the role of Kitri in Don Quixote and hoping that I would be promoted to étoile after this performance. I wasn't sure where I was. I might have been dancing on the stage at the Palais Garnier, or I could have been on the Opéra Bastille's stage. I didn't see my surroundings. I only saw myself on the stage.
I was right. After the show, I was promoted to étoile! I certainly hoped I was at the Palais Garnier because it is a much prettier place, especially when promotions are announced. The Opéra Bastille is hideous, in my opinion. I looked so happy in my dream, seeing as my dream came true. My talent was being recognized, and people were cheering and clapping...for me.
Before I could make my way backstage, something terrible happened! A dark shadow stepped out from the wing, and I felt hands tighten around my throat. I gasped for air, but nothing happened. I couldn't breathe. I was dying. The hands were killing me.
That was when I woke up and screamed at the top of my lungs. I've always heard it was bad luck to die in a dream, so I was glad that I woke myself up. Sabine rolled over, turned to me, and said, "Ta gueule! J'essaie de dormir!"
Before I could scream anything in response to my obnoxious twin sister, I closed my eyes out of exhaustion and fell back asleep. The nightmare continued where it had left off. Somebody had thrown my limp body in a storage closet and bound my hands with my hair ribbon while my feet were bound by the ribbons of my pointe shoes.
Okay, so I wasn't dead, but I was dying. I heard faint voices saying, "Bad things happen to good people, but even worse things happen to bad people." Outside of the closet, somebody placed my fan and flower clip on a note that read, "Voici restent les espoirs et les rêves de Sandrine Giselle Bouchard."
I knew who it was instantly. The bad grammar (saying reste instead of restent) gave it away. It was Ophélie...or the girl whom I thought was Ophélie...or maybe it was the real Ophélie...?
My vision blurred, and I couldn't hear. I was actually dying this time.
I woke up and screamed again. Sabine angrily muttered that she was going to sleep in the living room, so she gathered her pillow and throw blanket and did just that. She also grumbled something about how the nightmares were starting again. Whatever.
Dreams like this made me paranoid. Was I really going to die this way? I mean, nobody dreams of dying in a closet in the Palais Garnier or Opéra Bastille...especially the Opéra Bastille. For the most part, all of us want to pass away peacefully in our sleep when we are old. Nobody wants to die at the height of their professional dancing career.
I also had to wonder what kind of edge the real Ophélie had on me. This dream reaffirmed what I already knew.
I was in trouble, and I had to talk to my Ophélie. I hope she's alive...