Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Destinee Darwin: The Dreamer

It's always been hard to remember. When I think about things that happened long ago, sometimes it's hard to draw a line between real events, and things that I dreamed. It was worse before, but even now I don't remember all the details. I don't know if it was the stuff that happened in our final year that scattered my earlier memories like scrambled eggs, or if I've always been a little confused what was real or not. Maybe the question doesn't even make sense, but you've got to understand that just because I remember something, it doesn't mean it was real.

I remember that morning, though, waking up. I'd been dreaming, and the images were so vivid in my mind, it was incredible. Like I'd drunk a rainbow and looked through it to a whole new world where colours were alive and everybody could understand. A land where every dream could come true. I felt my body moving, my cheek brushing against cool sheets, and I started to understand that all these wonderful things in front of me weren't real. I watched a flying shark leap onto a ship and consume it entirely, and somehow I was sad to realise that kind of thing wouldn't ever happen.

It was dark, of course. The whole world was black, no input once the imaginary rainbow was gone. I didn't think about the darkness, though. Waking in total darkness was old enough to be familiar; I'd never liked it but I didn't have the choice when I was young, and since then I'd not had time to learn anything else. I turned my head, glanced around, but there was nothing for me to see. If there was, some thin crack of light, then maybe I don't remember it. Dark was what I was used to, after all. Then I closed my eyes, trying to remember as much of that wonderful dream as I could. Not the stories, the stories of my dreams never made sense, and trying to remember them was always futile. But the images, the grand visuals, the things I was sure would be art if I could learn to paint them.

Maybe those images could even inspire me to write a symphony, I thought. I wanted so much to play for a crowd, for all the people of the world. I thought it might happen, some day, so I started composing the symphony in my mind as I went through the beautiful scenes I remembered. There was a crate in many of them, for some reason. A battered wooden crate, it seemed to be some motif that my subconscious had called on. In one image it was falling through the sky, pursued by parachuting men in old fashioned greatcoats. In another rainbows were oozing out between the timber slats, and coalescing in the air above to form a dragon.

I'd never seen that crate then, so I didn't know what the image in my mind could mean. But I thought just maybe it was some part of my dreaming mind telling me about what would happen in the future. It does that sometimes, but it's never clear until afterwards when it's no help. So I decided I was going to watch out for wooden crates, and if I saw one I'd use it as a model, to help me draw or paint those pictures from my dream. I thought about the symphony, too, but I was sure I wouldn't be allowed to play for an audience. I just wasn't the right person, they didn't want me to succeed. My family had laid out a path of boredom for me before I could even speak, and now I had no choice but to follow that path and fulfil their expectations. I was sure I could have been great, I guess every artist thinks like that, but I wasn't allowed.

I remember waking up, but not what came next. Maybe I fell back asleep, that wouldn't be a surprise, but I remembered those dreams. And later, I remember the images came flooding back. Not as images in a dream this time, but patterns of pencil on paper. I was so focused on creating a real impression of the incredible visuals that had filled my mind, I didn't even pay attention when Dwayne and everybody came in. I heard the door open, a muted sound as if through a foot of pillow fluff. The only thing that mattered was my drawings.

I caught a few words as you talked. Charged to store. The continued existence of the society. Hide the Box. Rival societies. I knew that it was important even at the time. From the seriousness of your voices, I knew that you were all a little worried. And the instincts I don't have a name for told me this was an important conversation that would lead to huge changes in my future. But my mind was filled with one picture, a crate splitting open like an egg and sci-fi space fighters bursting out of the space within.

Maybe it was portentous, maybe it was beautiful, but I'd never been able to tear my attention away from a work of art before it was finished. So, you said all those important things, and I wasn't listening. My mind was still on the picture – the last line finally in place – when Kris suggested going to the pub. And those two moments, that's all the memories I've got for that day.