I come home and have put my things on the bed in a room that I apparently share with at least three other people. After I've put my stuff down, I look out the window to realize that my stepfather (the one who molested me for the duration of his marriage to my mother) was walking up the driveway with a backpack slung over his shoulder, as though he was intending to stay the weekend.
I walked out of my bedroom into a maze of halls, because the house had now become a small apartment building with people spilling out of every room, all related to me. Most of them were doing some kind of drugs, most of them were chemically indifferent to me as I walked by. I was just another one of their sisters who posed no threat.
As I passed the phone downstairs in the lobby/living room, it rang and I picked it up. It was one of my brothers, the one who didn't just use, he dealt. His greeting was always the same "This is [insert psuedonym du jour here]. I'm in town on business. Okay if I come up?" He was asking in his own code if it was safe to be seen in the area, but I found it laughable because his voice was very distinctive and his phrasing, other than the name which changed every time, was exactly the same. He thought he was being clever, and for someone who had been doing heroin forever, he was.
Later on, it was the start of another weekend. On the weekends, the whole clan gathered at the house, so space was unusually tight. The bedroom I shared with the two others was now being shared by at least five others, so when I put something down on the bed, one of them started to cry that I had put my things down on her spot.
I went downstairs and outside to get away from the crowd and to avoid the stepfather who was walking up the drive. There was a boy standing at the end of the driveway who was about my age (meaning, in the dream, that I was about 19 or 20). He was staring at my house and at me, and I went up to him and started talking to him.
He told me about the reputation my house had in the neighborhood, and I told him that it was well-deserved. He wanted to see it, but he was also plainly interested in me. I took him inside and again answered the phone. Again it was my brother and again I told him the coast was clear. The boy and I rounded an upstairs corner just as he appeared looking like an extremely strung-out Tom Hulce wearing an overcoat and carrying a tennis racket and a tire pump.
I accepted a joint from him, wrapped tightly and in a very long cigarette holder, and I lit it while standing in the hallway talking to the boy. As we talked, it became plain that this boy represented my means of escape from this place. He was obviously into me, and while I thought he was good-looking, I was mostly attracted to his desire to take me somewhere else.
Once the novelty wore off, the both of us left.