Dream Journal Ultimate
Date: 11/16/2025
By amandalyle
I’m at a barbecue, though no one looks like they’re enjoying anything remotely edible. People are scattered around Laura’s garden, sipping beer like it’s on a countdown timer. Everyone looks misplaced, like the universe shook a box of humans and dumped us here to see what might spontaneously combust. I’m nodding along to a man I vaguely recognise — possibly a neighbour, possibly someone who once handed me a leaflet — when a sudden, stabbing pain flares in my jaw. It hits so sharp it nearly knocks the fake smile clean off my face. “Excuse me,” I mutter, escaping to the bathroom. The bulb flickers just long enough for my reflection to punch me in the soul. My teeth. They’re black. Not stained, not mildly discoloured. Black like grave soil. Black like burnt matchsticks. Black like something inside me has rotted and has decided to show off about it. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper, gripping the sink. “What the fuck happened?” A knock rattles the door. “No — no one can see me like this!” “It’s only me,” Mat says through the door. His voice trembles strangely, like he’s speaking through cotton wool. I open the door just a crack. Mat stands there with his hand pressed over his mouth as though holding his own crisis inside. “Have your teeth turned black too?” I mumble through barely parted lips. “Mmhhh,” he hums, which clarifies nothing and makes everything worse. We ransack Laura’s bathroom like deranged treasure hunters. Vegan toothpaste. A charcoal scrub (insulting and suspiciously on-brand). Some floral eco-mouthwash that burns like punishment. Nothing helps. I hold up bleach. Mat shakes his head. I brandish a toilet brush. He sighs, defeated by the very concept of existence. We try to slip out unnoticed, lips clamped tight, but Liz intercepts us with sniper precision. “Panda!” she shrieks happily. I clamp my mouth shut. “Hmmhmm.” She scowls. “Are you drunk?” Mat leans in, humming nonsense. She blinks. “I’ll… get wine,” she decides, retreating as though we might explode. Her footsteps fade — and the garden seems to fade with them. The warm light, the chatter, the barbecue smoke — they all slide away like scenery being pulled off stage. And then I’m somewhere else entirely. The grass underfoot has turned to mud. The air is cooler, sourer. I’m standing beside a ditch. And slumped inside it, crumpled like disregarded clothing, is a man. Will Ostler. From school. He looks bloated, bruised, worn down to the marrow. Like life itself has been leaking out of him drip weary by drip. “He’s a waster,” calls a voice from behind. I turn. Matt Ostler, his brother. My fellow work colleague. Of course he’s related. The resemblance is there, if you squint your eyes enough and stain them with disappointment. “Not worth your breath,” he says, stepping closer. Will coughs, lifts his head. “Amanda” He recognises me. Even now. Which is shocking, considering I barely recognise myself these days. Spiritual growth and all that. He reaches up, fingers trembling. Before I can respond, Matt leaps into the ditch and kicks him — hard enough for the sound to echo. “Pathetic,” he spits. Another kick. Another hiss of rage. “Matt! Stop!” I shout. “There’s no need—” “You try having a useless leech for a brother,” he mutters darkly, delivering one last, brutal kick before climbing out and leaving without a backwards glance. Silence settles, thick and gritty. I step back. Then further. Cowardly. My feet carry me away automatically — because turning from discomfort is a reflex at this point. I get several steps before guilt grips me by the spine. I should help. I should say something. Crouch down, show a shred of compassion. I turn around and walk back. Will lies curled, breathing shallowly. His eyes flicker open. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. A useless apology, delivered too late, soft and trembling. He coughs, spits something into his hands and then raises them towards me. His fingers pry apart, trembling. Something rattles inside his palm. Teeth. Black teeth. My teeth. “Do you…” he rasps, voice shredded, “…want your teeth back?” For a second, the world goes utterly still. “That’s not — ” I begin, but my voice shrivels. But my hands are already rising. Already reaching. Already feeling for reassurance. My fingers meet only gum. Soft. Empty. Bare. A strangled sound escapes me. Will watches. Then he smiles — a wide, jagged smile full of black, broken teeth. My smile. Wearing someone else’s face. “Too late now,” he whispers, curling his fingers around what’s left of me. Something shifts beneath us. The ditch darkens — not visually, but atmospherically, as though the shadows grow teeth of their own. The mud at the edge softens. Sucks. Pulls. I scramble back, but the ground gives way. The ditch yawns wider — an impossible widening, a mouth opening to swallow. I fall. Not onto earth. Not into mud. But down — down into a blackness that feels ancient and familiar, like the place all avoided things go to rot. The last thing I see before the dark closes over me is Will’s silhouette at the rim, grinning with my stolen teeth — and then the abyss takes me whole.