Last night, I dreamed that I was with my beloved husband, and that I was trying to gouge out his eyes with my car keys. It didn't start out that way. In the beginning of my dream it was like we were on our honeymoon, thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-two days ago. He looked so different then that I didn't recognize him at first; he seemed taller, with rounder shoulders and a clean-shaven face. The fact that his nose wasn't crooked from being broken multiple times should have told me that this was a day that came and went long ago. God, he was so [i]handsome[/i]. I thought he was one of my old boyfriends from college, but no, he was the groom. We had just gotten married. The two of us, looking as we did... it was as if flipping through a complete stranger's photo album. I didn't recognize his face, and yet I wanted him, deeply, in the sort of carnal way that only ever manifests in dreams. He appeared as a stranger to me, yet I recognized where we were. You see, we went to this certain hotel in Vegas for our honeymoon, and we must have made love numerous times during our stay there. I suppose I would have no choice but to remember how it looked—how it [i]felt[/i]—in my subconscious. He and I were saying things to each other, complete non-words that you utterly fail to recall when you wake up. No doubt we were talking about how we wanted to feel each other, and no doubt I told him repeatedly, in a hushed tone, how I wanted him inside me. Our clothes came off like they were nothing; the whole experience was ripped straight from a dime-store erotic novel, where the act of removing your lover's clothes is one without friction. Before I knew it we had delved deep into the depths of the sea, and I felt so lost in him that for this short time I no longer felt any of myself; I was all of him, then. I was enveloped in the kind of mindless ecstasy you experience towards the end of a wet dream, right before it all comes crashing down, suddenly, as though someone had changed the channel on the television set. In hindsight, I wish it [i]did[/i] end like that. Eternity passed, and he was on top of me, making wonderful, inhuman noises. I didn't notice him changing at first. His nose seemingly turned, as if its tip wanted to point in a certain direction. His hair became greasier and more unkempt. He felt heavier and heavier on top of me, as though trying to overpower me with his weight. He started to resemble a pig. He started to resemble how he looks now. I felt less and less good as the act went along, perhaps by the second, and before long I wanted him to get off me. I didn't want to tell him I didn't want him anymore; I wanted to be nice to him. Yet he became more and more frustrated, even [i]angry[/i] with me. He said something along the lines of not wanting to stop, which to my ears sounded more like a command than a plea for continuation; I didn't want to do it anymore, but he wouldn't listen to me, which I suppose was only expected. I tried getting away from him, as much as I could, but he had me pinned down with his arms and his growing fat. I tried to say something—something loud and harsh—but he clasped his hand over my mouth. My legs proved useless in getting me away from him, so I reached around for anything to hit him with. What I found didn't matter to me; I couldn't see where I was reaching, or I don't remember it anyway. Eventually I found my car keys, in one of the pockets of my jacket I had taken off, and aimed the sharpened edges at his face. I slashed him repeatedly. At first all I wanted was for him to get off of me, but then when I had control I attacked him ruthlessly, even after he had stopped having his way with me. Blood and other fluids poured from his eyes, and he screamed like a pig being slaughtered, but I kept hitting him. [i]And hitting and hitting and hitting...[/i] Until I awoke in my own bed, in my own house—and there he was, sleeping beside me.