Last Day of School and Dream about the Killer Sea Monster

So, today was the last day of school, marked ironically with the last and least rigorous of my exams: Seminar of the Arts, the exam consisting of the Cultural Languages, Creative Writing, and Careers in the Arts portions of our course. Naturally, I finished within an hour; and the only reason that I took that amount of time was that I insisted on checking over each answer to make sure that, in my speed, I hadn't skipped a question or recorded an answer incorrectly on the sheet. After the test, I was well occupied with a Jodi Picoult book that Ms. Jones is allowing me to borrow over the summer, entitled Change of Heart, which deals with, in the tradition of Jodi Picoult books, a controversial issue in modern society, which in this case is the death penalty. Owing to the fact that her books are famous for being page-turners, I find that I'm already about seventy pages into it (which is a lot for me; I'm a notoriously slow reader). In any case, Ms. Jones offered to let me borrow it in the first place because I had lent her my Carson McCullers autobiography and she wanted to exchange a book of her own so that we could have the summer to read the selections. Likewise, I'm hoping that Harrison, a fellow classmate, utilizes his time over the summer to read The Grapes of Wrath, which I lent him in a spurt of spreading-the-awesomeness-of-John-Steinbeck passion a few months ago, and which he started to read a week ago. It has been rather amusing, because over the past few months, I've asked him at least three times if he's started to read it, simply because I'm nerdy and I was curious as to what he thinks of it, and how he thinks it compares to Of Mice and Men; however, whenever I asked him this, he seemed to think that I was prompting him to hurry up and return the book, though I assured him otherwise multiple times. After the second occurrence of this, I decided not to ask him again until just before the summer, when he delivered the news that he had finally started to read it, but that he had gotten stuck in the introduction - at which point I exclaimed, "Who reads the introduction anyways, Harrison?! I didn't!" and he seemed relieved, admitting that after trudging through ten pages of the introduction, he had decided to skip it.
So anyways, around 11:30 or 12:00, the bell released us for a brief lunch period, half of which I spent hanging out with Elizabeth Bell, McKinley, and Jordan and eating a cosmic brownie and pack of Smiles, the other half of which I spent gathering things from my locker and delivering my lock and its combination (for the purpose of nostalgia: 13-31-9) to the main office as Ms. Parise wasn't in her room. After doing this, I carried the accumulation of binders and such from my locker back to the picnic tables, where I contacted my mother, beseeching her to come and rescue me from the awful heat (it must have been at least 90 degrees today). Eventually, since Kalyn's addition to the family hinders the speed of any sort of last-minute plan, I was shooed to the opposite side of the street, where we were officially off-campus; the other students who weren't fortunate enough to have rides were herded to various locations within the building. I called my mom again after a few minute to alert her to my change of position, and to ask if she was almost there because it was still quite hot outside - she responded that she was just coming up on Five Points and should be arriving outside of my school any minute. This she did, and after being hugged by Elizabeth and the other two girls (whom I really only know through Elizabeth and sharing their driver's ed class; I still have to take my in-car), I loaded my stuff into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. My mom and I had our lunch at the new Mario's near my dad's house, and then she dropped me off at my dad's house, where I walked the Baby, played the "Adagio" of the "Tempest," and the beginning of the third movement of the "Moonlight," and slept on my dad's bed with the dog and the cat for an hour or so.
The rest of the evening passed in a typical, non-eventful manner until I decided to scout around on the Internet for some Proust, which I've been meaning to do anyway. I found a free e-book type thing of his masterpiece, A la recherche du temps perdu, I believe it is called (Search for Lost time). This particular site that I found had both the English translation and the French original, and so I initially pulled up the French and started to figure my way through it, as with a mathematical equation, but I could tell that there were beautiful things - extravagant, luscious similes and metaphors - that I was missing with my limited vocabulary. So, after struggling through a few paragraphs in this manner, I pulled up the English version in a different window and began to read the translation; it was beautiful, and very relatable. The part that I read dealt with his memories of sleeping when he was a boy, about how he would often fall asleep reading and then be unable to separate himself from the "subjects" of his literature - they would mold inevitably into his dreams. He discussed his dreams of women - saying that, just as Eve was created from the rib of Adam, so these women radiated from his sleeping form, so that when he awoke, there would be moments of the dream's memory in which his body was still conformed to accept the shape of the woman's and the warmth of her kiss was still upon his cheek. In any case, I could go on about some of the details of that and other paragraphs, but my point is that I was awed by the beauty of his prose, in the original text and in the translation - I shall have to find a hard copy of it with the translation so that I can similarly read my way through both.
So, I long have rambled, and I'm sure that most of you who have come to read this entry are more interested in the dream involving the killer sea monster which was referenced in the title; actually, you probably are not, since I just had a conversation with my dad which went like this:
My dad: So, who're you chatting with on there?
Robyn: No one. I'm blogging. Oh, by the way, did I tell you about this crazy dream that I had the other night where there was this guy who could turn into a sea monster and - ?
My dad (nodding): Yes. . .You did.
Robyn: I did? Really? I don't remember telling you.
My dad (backing towards the stairs, grabbing the vacuum cleaner): Well, you did.
Robyn: Are you just saying that so you can avoid hearing the dream?
My dad: . . .Yes.
In any case, whether you are looking forward to it or not, here is the dream. I lived in a large beach-house with a group of many other people which contained my parents, my mom's friend Lalanea, and her daughter Xiola. It was our job (the job of everyone in the house) to look after one individual who was confined to the house with us: a convicted murderer, who was "insane in the membrane," and who could transform into a giant, blue, rainbow-striped sea monster at will. This man, who was really not insane but had an insatiable urge to kill, was known for targeting women particularly, so he did have some method to his supposed madness - the supposed madness being the reason that he wasn't in a prison somewhere. The beach house was like a sort of half-way house, in that he was expected to eventually recover from his "madness" while under our supervision. In any case, now that I'm awake, I realize that it was rather silly to try to restrain this man from killing people when we were so close to the ocean where he could easily utilize his transformation powers. Many mornings found Xiola and I, who were on the midnight-to-morning watch shift of the maniac, running down the beach to the water, where we could see some unfortunate early-morning swimmer struggling to paddle to shore as the silhouette of the escaped sea monster rose up, towering, behind them. This happened multiple times, and we were chastised by the other members of the beach house most severely.
"What if he ran off one time during the night?" one woman asked us, "Then we'd be in even deeper trouble; we can't just let him go around, destroying everything in his path - he needs to stay here for his rehabilitation - each time you let him kill, you're reminding him of what he's missing from his old life."
Yet, the murderer returned each time, as would an obedient dog. Of course, we were unable to tackle a gigantic sea monster to the beach and drag him back inside the house; we had to wait. But, before midafternoon, we would always find our cold-blooded murderer asleep in his bed upstairs, often without noticing him enter the house in the first place.
After establishing this routine, there came a night when Xiola and I, upon tip-toeing up to his bedroom on the top floor, found his bed to be empty once again. However, we knew something was amiss almost right away: while we could generally hear the screams of the swimmers being attacked from his window or the splashing sounds of his large, serpentine body flailing around in the ocean, we could hear nothing this night. It was eerily quiet, and it seemed that our fellow boarder's prediction may have come true: our murderer might have finally escaped the lot completely.
First, however, before we jumped to conclusions, we had to search the house for the killer and any "trophies" that he may have taken into the house with him (his victims). We exited the room and entered the long, long hallway outside of it, lined on either side by doors, most of which were cracked and contained the other sleeping boarders of the house. We walked down this hallway, checking in each room for the murderer and his kill - it was an intense walk, not knowing where he might be or whether or not he might be in a state of mind provoking him to kill us if we found him. It was around this time that I woke up.