On Maysa #It'sOn

I woke up and settled into my day to day routine. I immediately smoothed the bed. I was aware that I was not on script. I had diverged from the set piece, the tracks laid down to trap me into being confused with Maysa. People are seeing in real time that we are different people and Maysa has nowhere to hide. Maysa is panicking and is trying to force me into compliance somehow. I notice that my gums inside my mouth hold another set of teeth, another mouth. This fact is news to me and I am horrified by it. But then, I think to myself that everyone has this physiology; it's not just me. I calm down.

I head to the bathroom to start my day. In the bathroom, I don't turn on the light and I see my reflection in the mirror. I can barely make myself out in the dim light; I appear as dark shadows. My hair has twisted curls jutting out in all directions. It reminds me of a painting I had and lost in real life. I think to myself that I look like Medusa except I don't see any snakes, only hair. Thank god because I am deathly afraid of snakes. Last time I was at a zoo, in London, with Aymen, Yanush, Dawid, and their nanny, I refused to enter the reptiles pavilion and see the snakes. The nanny and I (weirdly enough she didn't accompany the children) waited on a bench outside while they went in on their own. 

All of a sudden, I hear the door opening. It's a policeman, a black man. Just like the one who attacked me as I lay in my bed, with his buddy, a White guy, just watching. Where are the good guys when you need them? The policeman's uniform is off, not quite regulation. I stopped him in his track and chase him out the door. He tries to get away. For some reason, we are in some sort of government building, not a residential place. There is a guard sitting at the intersection of the hallway and the main lobby. I corner the policeman and start shouting at him in front of everyone present. I accuse him of breaking and entering, which is a felony. No one seems moved by this. The policeman is not scared. I stop a woman walking by us. She is Black, well-dressed and groomed. She has a buzz cut that suits her smiling face. I ask her if it is Ok for the policeman to enter her house when she is alone, without invitation. To my surprise, she says yes. I am flabbergasted. I try again. I ask her is it is OK for the policeman to do this to her daughter. She doesn't answer. I wake up, this time in real life.

I am instantly scared. My "dream" mirrors my real life to such an extent that I feel violated. How did my dreaming self know about my real life? I start thinking about the details of the dream. I remember Mona once complaining to me about being Cruella, from the Disney movie, which was released fairly recently at the time. I countered reflex-ably that I was Medusa. I knew the power of Medusa as a mythological figure from a childhood movie I watched as a kid titled, "The Medusa's Touch" with Richard Burton. That movie is no movie for kids, I tell you. But our parents were really liberal with us when it came to cinema. I grew up watching the most inappropriate stuff a kid could watch, short of porn.

I almost don't want to get out of bed, the dream is such a horror. I notice a hole that's growing bigger in the glass door that separates my bedroom from the sitting room. How did that happen? Is there a ghost roaming my apartment wreaking havoc, destroying my belongings? I want answers. Who will give me answers? Erik? Erik Stubblefield? There is something in the air. Maybe my mom is finally waking up to the truth of what Maysa has done. Maysa is trying to push Sulafa on me, as I lay in bed. Just like before. I listen for the noise as it works out truth from fiction. I chime in, yes, I am Noha, not Maysa. Yes, we are different people. Yes, Maysa has ruined my life and marriage. Yes, ignore Maysa's sorrys and stop her now. Yes, Maysa is not British, so sorrys don't apply. Yes, I want to be up there with you. Yes, I am sane. Yes, I am in perfect health. Ouch, something just hurt my stomach, like a foreign object trying to lodge itself inside me. No, I am not pregnant. Who is the little girl in the elevator, staring me down, as her mom, a woman of Asian (not Southeast Asian) persuasion with Instagram worthy eyebrows, types furiously into her mobile phone? Should I be scared of the people in my building? Yes, I am suffering. Yes, I am scared. Yes, please stop Maysa now. Now!