Dream a little dream

This I dreamed the other night:

I was standing at one end of a gymnasium. Many grown-up children were playing on the smooth, gleaming floor. I was not there to play. I was on a mission. A man-child stood in front of me with a volleyball by his feet. He kicked it swiftly towards the other end of the gym, and I raced after it. My goal: to reach the ball before it crossed the goal line at the end of the gym, reverse its direction, and kick it past the man-child's own goal line. The ball came to a stop at the foot of a large girl standing with her two friends in the middle of the gym. I slowed down. She glanced at me then gave her friends a small smirk. As I approached her, she gave the ball a light push with her toe. It moved away from me. I blinked. She followed the ball, serenely. I tried to reach the ball, but she was in my way. Every time I got close, she gave the ball another push. As we neared the back wall of the gym, my desperation increased, and I hastened my pace-- but she was quicker, and she gave the ball a final strong kick as it neared the goal line, then she planted herself firmly in my way so that I wasted precious seconds swerving around her. It was too late. The ball crossed the line, and it was over. I whirled around, fire and ice coursing through my veins. I must have yelled or screamed or hurled at her an epithet for her lips, formerly sporting an amused smirk, twisted into a predatory grin. She took a slow, measured step towards me, then another, and another. I stayed put although I yearned to leap at her, throttle her, maim her. She halted mere inches from my face. I was wrong; she wasn't twice my size, although her bulging biceps were all I could glare at due to her proximity. She did not speak and neither did I. Then she took a step back, grasped my hand, and smiled as she broke my thumb. I burst into tears.

My eyes snapped open. I was breathing hard. I was shocked. I was horrified. I was humiliated. Above all, I was furious. Oh sure, I was angry at Her. But mostly, I was angry at myself for crying when all I wanted to do was rip her throat out. I don't really know why I have this tendency to tear up whenever I'm feeling a strong emotion that actually translates into "I'd like to smash your head like a pumpkin". It probably has something to do with hormones; if I didn't let out all that rage immediately, I might just follow through with my thoughts. It's too bad that I can't release my anger in the form of some scathing retort and walk away, although sometimes, it's the knife-edged words I'm holding back that cause me to bawl my eyes out. Oh well. And I can't walk away because of that damn pride thing. Such sticky situations; is it truly better to walk away and live to fight another day? Rationally, yes. But the mind can have a heckuva hard time convincing the heart.

Anyway, I think that's quite possibly the most disturbing dream I've ever had; it even beats out the one where I was a Viking princess and Daddy invaded New York, but when we returned home over snow-covered hills, a velociraptor bit off my arm.