The Anatomy of Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page B

came; for me, there was only pulsing discomfort, which faded to a dull throb. The next day, in Gabe’s room, I held his chest as he lurched and rocked above me; and then I was the one who was lurching, rocking, tentatively at first and then with a voraciousness I didn’t know I had. We moved together brutally, our teenager’s need as aggressive as it was ravenous, shoving until we seemed less to be having sex than pushing outside our own skins. It was as though there was something to be found beyond sex and we were running for it, clasped together but somehow in competition. Which is not to say it didn’t feel shared; we were together in those moments, the only ones who knew what it was like.
    Around this time, I started to have dreams I could barely remember and that left me physically exhausted, as if in them I ran great distances. Once, I woke with a bloody scrape on my left knee. I showed it to Gabe: the scrape glittered red under my desk lamp, as if it were not a wound but a jewel I had been given. I attributed the dreams to sex, both their physical manifestations and their psychological features. I was always exploring a space I never had before—walking across an empty room or through an unfamiliar forest. There were never other people, but sometimes, there were animals. In theforest I saw squirrels whose rustles of movement startled me, but I was most afraid of a cat in the unfamiliar room. It was a small creature, silky and mustard colored and not overtly intimidating, but I felt loathing when I saw it. Often, the cat circled me or pushed against me with its head. Now I think my aversion had more to do with my resentment at being left alone in the room than the cat itself—probably it could sense my fear and was trying to comfort me. But I felt strongly that some wrong had been done in putting me there, and I directed this bitterness at the only creature I could.
    On the last night of the Thanksgiving break, Gabe and I fell asleep together: our legs braided, our chests stacked spoons. The next morning, though, I woke up alone. I’m not sure how I knew he hadn’t gone back to his own room—call it instinct or intuition, the last cry of the subconscious. Before I could convince myself otherwise, I shoved into my sneakers and yanked on an old sweatshirt, grabbing a flashlight on the way out of the dorm.
    It was cold outside, wind sighing in the trees. Fog had turned the sky cottony, so it was difficult to see Keller’s house—only its smudged outline, faint as the sun’s corona, before a scrim of trees. As I came closer to the house, I could hear the stream that ran behind it, making noises like little licks. I intended to go all the way to the garden, though I had no idea what I’d do when I got there. But I didn’t have time to decide, because Gabe walked right out of the front door.
    â€œSylvie,” he said, stopping in front of me.
    I was stunned. Even if I feared I’d find him here, I hadn’t actually expected it. Still woozy in that early-morning hour, I almost felt I was dreaming. I reached for him.
    â€œNo, don’t.” He stepped back. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
    â€œNot supposed to be here?” We were both whispering, though my voice was getting louder. “You just walked out ofKeller’s house. I saw you—out of Keller’s house . And I’m the one who’s not supposed to be here?”
    â€œIt’s part of the—” Gabe turned his head, and his eyes flickered to the left, as though searching for someone. “Remember what I told you, Sylvie. It’s part . . .”
    His mouth hung open for a few seconds, then closed. But before I could tell him that he hadn’t told me anything, another voice came from the doorway.
    â€œGabriel.”
    Mr. Keller stood in the arch that led into the house. Keller didn’t often appear among us students when he wasn’t