Damaged by Amy Reed

be an old bitch, but at least she has some of her priorities straight.
    When I get onto the country road, I stick out my thumb. The first car stops to give me a ride. I am very aware that in the real world, this particular form of transportation is considered dangerous. But this is not the real world. This is a place where nothing happens. The driver is an old lady who lives a half mile down the road from me. She babbles about her grandkids while I stare out the window.
    I knock on Grandma’s door. She doesn’t like it when we enter without knocking. We don’t even have keys. I think she’s secretly afraid Mom will steal her stuff and try to sell it. Grandma doesn’t even bother to come to the door and greet me. I just hear her gruff voice from somewhere inside call, “Come in.”
    I open the heavy front door and enter. Somehow it’s about twenty degrees cooler inside. The blinds are all drawn and everywhere I look it’s dark wood and velvety colors Grandma describes as “merlot” and “indigo.” Even though a house cleaner comes every week, it still seems dusty, like the air is thick with years of accumulated boredom and repressed feelings. I don’t know how she lives in here alone. It’s the most depressing place I’ve ever been.
    â€œHi, Grandma!” I say, attempting to sound somewhat cheerful. I figure I owe her that much for letting me enter her dungeon. I hear a grunt of acknowledgment from somewhere deep in the house, but nothing more. I walk up the creaky grand staircase to the computer room. Sickly red light streams in through stained glass windows and paints my skin. All the angles and dimensions of this place seem somehow off, and I feel dizzy for a moment, unstable, like the staircase is rippling beneath my feet, like everywhere I look are fun house mirrors that warp the world into twisted versions of itself.
    The feeling passes as quickly as it came on; I take a deep breath and remind myself that lack of sleep can bring on impaired balance. I look around to reacquaint myself with reality, but even though the world has stopped spinning I am still in the same haunted house. It’s still cold and dark and full of whispers. I can’t believe my mom grew up here. No wonder she’s so crazy.
    The computer room doesn’t fit with the rest of the house, which is why I like it. It’s a small room with a big window, which I open wide to let as much air and sunlight in as possible. The walls are plain white instead of covered with ornate wallpaper, and the shiny laptop and printer sit on the desk like they could actually belong to someone in this century. The browser is still open to the same thing I was looking at the last time I was here, something about extracurricular activities at the University of Michigan. I click in the upper right hand corner and start typing:
    how to stop nightmares
    Dr. Phil’s site says something about dreams reflecting unfinished business from your life, how repeating traumatic events is normal. Thanks a lot, Dr. Phil. He says talk about it with someone. Not going to happen. Next.
    Everywhere I look says basically the same thing: anxiety, stress, emotional issues, traumatic experience. All the suggestions seem so stupid: avoid eating close to bedtime, don’t drink caffeine or alcohol, don’t watch scary movies, spend time in nature, think happy thoughts, try to take charge in the nightmare and turn it into a happy dream, and if none of that works, see a therapist. The longer I search, the weirder the websites get. It’s astounding how many people claim to be certified dream interpreters. What kind of school issues these certifications? I also come across quite a few magic spells. Who are these quacks? I want step-by-step instructions that have been endorsed by major medical schools. I want something certain. I want something scientific. But there’s nothing like that. No one has a real answer.