Marila Scartozzi - But it only happens to whoever has a body

Dr. R asks me what I dreamed.

Dream. He tells me.

Dream. He commands me.

And he speaks to me of the shadow, which follows me, precedes me, stands beside me, looms over me. The shadow that devours me when I am distracted. It holds me against its palate, caresses me with its tongue. It shatters me, unafraid of bringing seven years of bad luck upon itself. It chews me slowly, ever so slowly. It swallows me one piece at a time. One. At. A. Time.

He speaks to me of the shadow and I, who have listened, who have learned, must prove that I have understood, that I am good, that I am up to the task. I cannot disappoint him, I cannot tell the truth, I cannot tell him that my sleep is naked and mute, that it is motionless and leaves the pillow uncreased. I cannot say that I sleep with my hair loose, I must tell him of a long fox-red braid, I must tell him of the strokes of the hairbrush before going to bed. There are not a hundred, there is not even one.

I cannot say that I have failed at this too. I cannot say that I am incapable of dreaming.

Dream. He tells me.

And from his dark wooden bookcase, from his bookcase filled with volumes, certainly, but also with stones, quills, shells, masks, tales of journeys he may or may not have actually taken, or perhaps they are merely souvenirs bought at some market held on the first Sunday of the month, one of those where one is afraid to ask the price. From his dark wooden bookcase, he pulls out a volume about Fellini’s dreams. One of those oversized books that cannot stand upright, destined for waiting rooms, coffee tables, living rooms, marble or exotic wood surfaces, to be opened to while away the time. Fellini dreamed too, he tells me, Fellini drew too, and he hands me pages thar are heavy to turn, even heavier to look at. And yet I look, that much I know how to do, and I see how dreams are told, shown without shame, yes, without shame. Where is his shadow? Where is the shadow that would prevent me from seeing, that would blot out the midday light, that would make everything dark enough, dark enough for me not to make out the mark on the page?

Look. He tells me. He would like them to be a source of inspiration for me, while even in my sleep I deny the space of my desires, of my own fierce pleasure.

Shyness is what Dr. R imagines. He imagines that I am ashamed, this is what Dr. R does. But it is not modesty that stills my tongue, perhaps it is years, it is centuries, it is millennia in which desire has had to remain silent, to hide, to deny the body the right to have a shape. Perhaps it is the smell of coffee in the morning, its boiling heat that erases the temperature of the night, which strips my breath of all the unspoken words, dissolving them in the black liquid, so that the night, death, the possible and the impossible remain unspeakable.

And yet he…

Dream. He tells me.

No longer the question with which he had maintained a distance, using the third person singular at first, until he grew closer and closer.

Dream, dream, dream.

A command, a categorical imperative, the latest in a lifetime of pleasing, obeying, nodding in agreement.

And so, I dream of long hair turning into bristles, down, fleece, mane, and then into thorns, into quills. Skin hair canines fur. And I wonder how to comb it before going to bed, how to gather it into a braid, a braid of thorns.

My nails turn into claws and I see Dr. R straighten up in his armchair, the hairs on his body rising, even though they are not quills. I am giving him exactly what he wants, and so. Blindly I obey him. Again, again.

I dream of a soft, shapeless burden that I always carry with me, that covers me and weighs me down, while all I want is to show my crescent-moon skin, a moon without an eclipse, a moon to be gazed upon without fear;

I dream of wings that cannot fly, feathers, pitch. Wings that shelter me, hide me, tickle me, become my bed and my blanket;

I dream of paws, tentacles, skin that flakes away and reassembles itself. I dream of caresses that leave marks on the flesh, embraces that burn the skin. I dream of bruises, ecchymoses that transform themselves and transform me and turn blue, purple, green until they become every shade of earth, the earth I am made of, the earth across which I crawl barefoot and in which I hide my footsteps.

See? You dream. He tells me and I nod.

Dream. He tells me.

My smile is melancholy as I rise, because I know the time is up, yes, it's time to pick up my shapeless mannequin again, to slip my arm into my coat, taking care that it covers us both, to put on my hat to hide the red that makes people turn their heads in the street.

As I leave, I turn to say goodbye and see him with his eyes half-closed. Then, for a moment, I pray, I hope, then I know, I am certain: it will be me, me, in his dreams.

- Marta Cereda, 2026