Susan's Hammer
To Emily
Susan woke up in a foggy afterdream, all tangled in sudden recollections of games being played on her by her subconscious. The air was heavy and dense with the dust that came from the outside world. Apparently it was too busy with summer to realize its dust was getting into Susan's room. Susan was also too busy trying desperately to get up. Her eyes could hardly stand the light and there seemed to be a hammer banging repeatedly on her head with a might worthy of Thor or some other mythological god. She quickly succumbed to her desire to make the hammer go away by banging her head on the pillow just one accurate time and go to sleep again.
While asleep, Susan dreamt of what she had dreamt before. Her subconscious kept on playing horrid games on her. The kind of games it was playing on her was the kind that would throw Freud into his closet where he would wish he would never come out and would waste away slowly, tormented by this other person's subconscious's idea of a good time. Still, since Susan didn't quite remember her dream, it occurred to her that it would be better than the hammer banging repeatedly on her head. She was, of course, wrong.
Since having Freud running to his closet and staying there until the day of his death would set back the psychoanalytical studies into complete oblivion, no attempt to describe Susan's dream will be made. Well, maybe just small attempts, just enough to scare Freud into very safe, definitely not dangerous, fainting.
A few minutes later, Susan was awake again. She was in a terribly distraught mood for a number of things. First of all, she had sudden recollections of her dream, again. This made her unstable as she didn't understand it very well, could not remember it completely and felt thoroughly used and on the verge of tears. In second place, she was awake and didn't want to be. Third, the hammer was back. When she finally decided that she would have to stay up to keep away the dream, she started thinking how could she make the hammer go away too. She first tried to talk it into it, but the hammer appeared to be entirely absorbed by the banging and would pay no attention to her. Then she thought maybe covering her head would stop it, but the hammer seemed to be somewhere inside her head, so covering it only intensified the bangs. Finally she realized that if the hammer was inside she must do something to get it out. Her common sense, her childhood mother and aunts, told her to take an aspirin. Her childhood father told her to be strong and deal with it like a man. Her five-year-old ex-boyfriend told her it must be her period or something, maybe they ought to have sex to see if that would help. Her inner adolescent told her to rebel and not do any of the above. Her inner child was crying because a hammer was pounding in her head.
All the shouting plus the hammer did not help at all. She decided to go with the common sense, although not with the childhood mother and aunts, and take a pill. She took two and waited. The hammer was still pounding. So she waited some more. The hammer kept on banging undisturbed with a disdainful face, if it should have had a face, of course. Susan's stomach, on the other hand, had been utterly disturbed, was angry, and wanted retaliation. To appease her stomach she went quickly to the kitchen and made a sandwich with the scarce things lying in the refrigerator.
Her stomach happy and willing to cooperate, Susan went over to her bedroom and almost fell asleep. But she suddenly remembered the steps behind her and the morbid face that was her own in a body she couldn't physically recognize but that in some way, an essential way, was painfully familiar. So she sprang from bed and realized that the hammer was still banging continuously, that her inner child was still crying, and that by no means would she listen to any of the advice the others were giving, as the first one didn't really work.
Her uncommon sense had kept suspiciously quiet. Susan thought she should give it a chance, after all, it also had rights like all the others. What her uncommon sense said was absolutely ridiculous. She laughed a little at the idea and then thought she might just go for a run and see if that would help.
The moment she got out into the sun she knew she had made a mistake. She jogged miserably back into her apartment knowing that all the showering, dressing, and getting ready had been positively a waste of time and that she should not have got out of bed in the first place. The problem was that the sun had overtly given the hammer strength and the banging grew practically unbearable.
The uncommon sense's idea seemed not as bad now, seeing that she had tried about everything except sleeping, which she couldn't try because of the frightful voice and the endless steps behind her, the partial glares at her pursuer, and then the beating during that wonderful Beatles song that she could not, from that moment on, listen to anymore.
A week later, when her lascivious five-year-old ex-boyfriend came looking for her, he found a half eaten sandwich, a Beatles CD playing ceaselessly the same song, some mud on the floor, a shattered mirror, and Susan, laying on the floor. Her face was disturbingly disfigured and a puddle gathered the crimson blood that trickled from a small hole in her head. A note, which made no sense, was found scribbled in the back of a supermarket ticket. The hammer has stopped, it said. The hammer has stopped.
Susan woke up in a foggy afterdream, all tangled in sudden recollections of games being played on her by her subconscious. The air was heavy and dense with the dust that came from the outside world. Apparently it was too busy with summer to realize its dust was getting into Susan's room. Susan was also too busy trying desperately to get up. Her eyes could hardly stand the light and there seemed to be a hammer banging repeatedly on her head with a might worthy of Thor or some other mythological god. She quickly succumbed to her desire to make the hammer go away by banging her head on the pillow just one accurate time and go to sleep again.
While asleep, Susan dreamt of what she had dreamt before. Her subconscious kept on playing horrid games on her. The kind of games it was playing on her was the kind that would throw Freud into his closet where he would wish he would never come out and would waste away slowly, tormented by this other person's subconscious's idea of a good time. Still, since Susan didn't quite remember her dream, it occurred to her that it would be better than the hammer banging repeatedly on her head. She was, of course, wrong.
Since having Freud running to his closet and staying there until the day of his death would set back the psychoanalytical studies into complete oblivion, no attempt to describe Susan's dream will be made. Well, maybe just small attempts, just enough to scare Freud into very safe, definitely not dangerous, fainting.
A few minutes later, Susan was awake again. She was in a terribly distraught mood for a number of things. First of all, she had sudden recollections of her dream, again. This made her unstable as she didn't understand it very well, could not remember it completely and felt thoroughly used and on the verge of tears. In second place, she was awake and didn't want to be. Third, the hammer was back. When she finally decided that she would have to stay up to keep away the dream, she started thinking how could she make the hammer go away too. She first tried to talk it into it, but the hammer appeared to be entirely absorbed by the banging and would pay no attention to her. Then she thought maybe covering her head would stop it, but the hammer seemed to be somewhere inside her head, so covering it only intensified the bangs. Finally she realized that if the hammer was inside she must do something to get it out. Her common sense, her childhood mother and aunts, told her to take an aspirin. Her childhood father told her to be strong and deal with it like a man. Her five-year-old ex-boyfriend told her it must be her period or something, maybe they ought to have sex to see if that would help. Her inner adolescent told her to rebel and not do any of the above. Her inner child was crying because a hammer was pounding in her head.
All the shouting plus the hammer did not help at all. She decided to go with the common sense, although not with the childhood mother and aunts, and take a pill. She took two and waited. The hammer was still pounding. So she waited some more. The hammer kept on banging undisturbed with a disdainful face, if it should have had a face, of course. Susan's stomach, on the other hand, had been utterly disturbed, was angry, and wanted retaliation. To appease her stomach she went quickly to the kitchen and made a sandwich with the scarce things lying in the refrigerator.
Her stomach happy and willing to cooperate, Susan went over to her bedroom and almost fell asleep. But she suddenly remembered the steps behind her and the morbid face that was her own in a body she couldn't physically recognize but that in some way, an essential way, was painfully familiar. So she sprang from bed and realized that the hammer was still banging continuously, that her inner child was still crying, and that by no means would she listen to any of the advice the others were giving, as the first one didn't really work.
Her uncommon sense had kept suspiciously quiet. Susan thought she should give it a chance, after all, it also had rights like all the others. What her uncommon sense said was absolutely ridiculous. She laughed a little at the idea and then thought she might just go for a run and see if that would help.
The moment she got out into the sun she knew she had made a mistake. She jogged miserably back into her apartment knowing that all the showering, dressing, and getting ready had been positively a waste of time and that she should not have got out of bed in the first place. The problem was that the sun had overtly given the hammer strength and the banging grew practically unbearable.
The uncommon sense's idea seemed not as bad now, seeing that she had tried about everything except sleeping, which she couldn't try because of the frightful voice and the endless steps behind her, the partial glares at her pursuer, and then the beating during that wonderful Beatles song that she could not, from that moment on, listen to anymore.
A week later, when her lascivious five-year-old ex-boyfriend came looking for her, he found a half eaten sandwich, a Beatles CD playing ceaselessly the same song, some mud on the floor, a shattered mirror, and Susan, laying on the floor. Her face was disturbingly disfigured and a puddle gathered the crimson blood that trickled from a small hole in her head. A note, which made no sense, was found scribbled in the back of a supermarket ticket. The hammer has stopped, it said. The hammer has stopped.
