Swimming to the inside of my foot

I was a competition swimmer. I'd just nearly finished swimming 55 miles in the Atlantic Ocean, there was one mile left. Just as I was swimming that last mile, the waves started to move like jello or water in a water bed. I didn't have to practice any strokes, instead I just floated along. A crowd was cheering for my team. I could hear my friends in the background, "look at Teresa's abs." At the leg end, the ocean turned into a swimming pool. I touched my feet off of the edge of the pool, and emerged from the water.

My teammates and I hugged and congratulated one another. We went back into the water to swim a cool down lap.

Once the competition was finished I went to my parents' house. They lived in a house on the ocean. My mother and I were arguing, she didn't want me to be a swimmer. "Why can't you do something that doesn't make me worry?" She asked, "Why can't you be a competitive knitter?"

"Oh, Mom. You just can't understand." I walked away as she was still talking to me. I couldn't stay still, my body was filled with restlessness. I paced the floors, I thought about swimming.

My Aunt Merribeth was in house, she had two babies. She was playing with them behind a partition. I stood at the front of the partition and asked her if I could hold one of the babies, but she wouldn't let me. The other baby looked at me and said, "my Mommy's dress is green. It's pretty." I looked at the dress, it was lime green and looked like a towel. I didn't answer. I was disappointed that I wasn't "allowed" to hold the baby.

I walked away, and stepped on a round piece of glass. It was sharp, but not painful. I sat on the floor and pulled the glass out with my fingers. When it came out there was a spot of blood. I found a tissue and blotted the blood. Then I looked at the cut: I could see inside of my foot-- the veins, the tendons, and up into my leg. I thought that it needed to be cleaned up even though I was fascinated by the inside of my body.

I wanted my aunt to look at my foot, but she said that cooking was more important. The whole family was gathered for dinner. I walked around the house, hobbling on my foot, afraid of things getting into the cut: carpet, coins, whatever was littering the floor.

I sat at the dinner table next to my aunt, and pulled my foot up, "but look, I think it needs stitches or a patch or something, can't you do that?" She shook her head.

I awoke.