I Find My Lack of Progress Disturbing…

Wednesday

GM

KKK I missed you so much!!!!

*hughughug*

Ok shall not squish you. *backs away*

ME

Lol

GM

You all right???

ME

I don’t really know… I usually tell people I’m getting there, or that I’m doing better… but mostly I’m just bleh anymore.

GM

*hugs* that’s a usual feeling to feel during recovery. You sort of hit a plateau of ‘blehness’. But that’s still an improvement from the horrible low parts of before.

Take it slowly ok? Don’t feel the need to appear OK just to please people.

ME

Don’t worry. I’m being careful.

GM

Good

ME

I have a good therapist.

GM

Oh that’s great

ME

Yeah… she’s been wonderful.

GM

I’m glad, I really am. You deserve good doctors.

ME

Yeah… it’s about time, huh. Lol

GM

Pretty much.

You’re not doing anything metaphysically right? Hope youve just been recuperating

ME

No… I’ve not done anything magickal since last year.

GM

That’s good, you’re focusing on recovering

Ah what am I saying? I’m just so happy to ‘see’ you again.

ME

It’s nice to be back.

GM

I’d like to think i’ve ‘grown’ in these few months. Lol.

ME

That’s good to hear. I’m not sure if I’ve grown… I think that I’ve changed so drastically, growth is the wrong concept.

GM

Well change isn’t a bad thing.

It just… is.

ME

Exactly.

GM

Changed how so?

ME

I’m not sure yet… I just know I’m not who I was anymore. I’m someone else, and I’m still trying to get to know the new me.

GM

Ok.

I’m not sure if what I’ve had to do lately has changed me.

ME

I didn’t realize I was someone else until the middle of summer, 15 months later.

GM

*nod*

That can happen.

ME

Yup. Lol Color me clueless.

Today

DR

Welcome back…I was wondering if I’d see you here again

ME

I needed some time..

DR

Nothing wrong with that…we all need to step away from time to time to work things out…it’s good to see you…pixelly speaking

ME

Good to see you again, too.

DR

How are you?

ME

Well, honestly I’ve spent the last 20 months trying to recover from a medical issue… I haven’t done anything more important than breathe.

DR

Don’t undervalue the importance of breathing, both literally and metaphorically…if you feel like talking about it in always a good listener, if not, it’s good to know that you’re still around

ME

I wrote a little on my blog… but I’m mostly trying to put it all behind me. I’m such a drastically different person from the Me that went through all of that… that old me died and now I’ve got to figure out who this person is that I rose from those ashes as.

It’s hard… like being a kid all over again… a lot of the time I feel very lost. At least my reactivity is getting better.

DR

I apologise, I am blogless and out of touch…but either way, kudos to you…it takes a lot to be able to reassess ones life

ME

I didn’t really have a choice… I was in so much physical pain that there were moments I was willing to die to make it stop… being tortured chronically by your own body, with no hope of relief or escape… well, I just had to confront things I believed about myself that just weren’t true, and I had to accept that, and adjust to what was real… I guess I kinda broke, and there was no putting the pieces back together the old way… I had to become someone new just to survive the experiences.

DR

Ah…metamorphosis…that is a concept I actually know quite a bit about

ME

*nods* I know. That’s why I can say these things to you and not worry about your reactions. It’s hard enough to talk about at all without having to comfort your audience.

DR

I’ve always found comfort to be…well, comforting…but not all that constructive…it seems to focus too much on the problem, where as the solution/s are where our attention should really lay…which probably explains why no one ever comes to m for comfort

ME

*nods* honestly, I’m not a very comforting person anymore… my best is to avoid discussion of things that make people feel uncomfortable unless they REALLY need to hear it… but this is more that people feel pity and a weird kind of helpless handwringing over my experiences, which is useless to me and creepy, too. So I just tell people what they want to hear… I tell them I’m getting better, when really, there’s nothing for me to go back to and GET better… there’s just pushing forward towards a new normal that hopefully resembles some kind of functionality and purposeful forward movement… but I’m nowhere near that yet… I seem to be in that stage where you’re not an emotional or mental basket case anymore, but you’re not out-monstering the monster yet, either. A plateau.

DR

Never understood pity, it’s one of those useless emotions that does nothing but belittle the recipient, and expose the ignorance of the giver…

And to be honest, there is something comforting (yes I see the irony in using the word) about building from scratch and starting over.. it means you can pour a brand new, stronger foundation from the last…or, to avoid metaphors, the experiences make you stronger and more able to handle what comes next

ME

Yes to both points. I don’t want pity… I’m alive and that counts for something. And I learned things about myself that have made me a deeper human being. More rooted in the truth of what pain lays bare. That definitely makes me stronger than someone who has never experienced anything that pushes you to the brink, let alone into the abyss. I know things now… I survived.

DR

How are your closest friends and family taking it all…generally speaking

ME

After everything happened I really shut down a lot. So I don’t really have any close friends anymore. I just… they didn’t understand and I couldn’t cope with the baggage of trying to protect them when I needed to be protecting myself… and… my family doesn’t seem to have noticed. I don’t talk to them about it. My husband is the only one who sees how much of a mess I still am… but even there… we don’t talk about it… he just gets shit done and lets me muddle along behind him.

DR

Is that the best course…to muddle behind? I understand the need to “get shit done” I’m of the same mind…but one also needs to communicate…otherwise problems stay problems

ME

There’s not really anything much to talk about. I mean we do talk, when there’s issues… but my recovery isn’t something we talk about, or what happened, either… because talking about that doesn’t fix anything.

DR

Not even as a “comfort”?

ME

It doesn’t comfort me to talk about it. It upsets and depresses me. I know that’s a sign that I really NEED to talk about it… but I just can’t. It’s easier to just not think about it, not feel, just move forward…. well, except that I’m not.

It happened. No one knows why. There’s no fix for the fact that it happened… and since there’s no why, there’s no way to prevent it from happening again, and I can’t face that… so we just ignore the elephant.

DR

Good then…focus on what you do have control over…Everything else will either happen, or not, in its own time

ME

Exactly. At least that way, I don’t have to think about how terrified I am, which always leads to panic attacks and migraines… which lead to more fear… best to not start the cycle. That way lies dragons. I wonder, though, if I’ll ever get over the trauma enough to stop being so afraid. Therapy hasn’t really gotten me too far… I’m able to ignore the issue, but that’s about it.

DR

I don’t know how helpful my advice will be…but when I find I’m afraid of something I go at it head on…it’s like poking a wound…it’s hurts at first, but eventually you get numb to it…and eventually it just stops hurting…i know, it sounds cliché…but I never feel so alive as when I’m afraid

ME

My fear is of pain, physical pain, of being trapped in a place where that is my only experiential reality and as I burn and writhe under the pulsing waves of my own body betraying me, I know there is only one way out. My fear is of pain so great that rational thought becomes impossible and I am not Kat anymore. I am just an animal, with one need…. to make it stoo, and I don’t care how. I’m not afraid of garden variety physical pain anymore , or even emotional shit… and I’m not sure how to face that and become numb to it, because in that moment, there’s no me to face anything… and trust me… there’s no numbing it out. It’s the only thing that’s real. I didn’t feel alive, I felt agony, and I wanted it to stop more than I wanted to breathe.

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Reconsidering Amea

RH I’ve had a recurring dream since I was in my late teens. It’s bizarre and it goes away for, sometimes, a month, a year, but it always comes back and sticks around a few nights. I’ll have to tell you about it in person sometime. It’s crazy and, I think, post-apocalyptic, if I’m interpreting what I’m seeing right. Regardless, there is a whole city on fire, so…yeah…RH And I always wake screaming and covered in sweat at the exact same place in the dream.

Nyctophilia Raven I used to have a recurring dream when I was a kid. It wasn’t a nightmare, though. And I have dreams that have chapters – I’ll dream one chapter, and then a few months or years later, I’ll dream the next chapter… but this past year, this is the first  time I’ve had a recurring theme of being SHOT, and had it be so realistic that I wake up panicked. I normally don’t have nightmares. And even getting shot was just shocking, not traumatic to the point of hysterics. It was… not knowing if she was ok, if the neighbors had heard the shot and actually come… people so often ignore what they aren’t looking at. I wasn’t upset about dying again… or even how. I was terrified that she hadn’t lived.

Nyctophilia Raven I think I can count the number of nightmares I’ve had on one hand, before this being shot to death thing started.RH It’s the only nightmare I think I’ve ever had, actually. That Amea dream sequence is better than anything Hollywood is putting out these days. Now I just want to write! lol

Nyctophilia Raven I’m not sure I’m happy about my dreams being better than movies. It doesn’t really help. lol

RH Ok, the first and second dream seem, to me, to share a connection beyond the gunshots… It’s just a tickle in the back of my brain, but these are connected, somehow…

Nyctophilia Raven If you can figure it out, please, PLEASE let me know. Because this is all totally BEYOND fucked up. I notice that the second and third dream both had my ex, Scott, the heroin addict, making an appearance. I haven’t been involved with him for nearly five years now.

RH Scott and the Meth Man, even the Husband in the first dream are incidental, I think. They are representative of something… This is crazy, never interpreted dreams before. Is there someone new or newer in your life whom you’ve quickly grown to trust who may not be worthy of that trust? Trust seems to be a theme.

Nyctophilia Raven Honestly, no… everyone in my life is a person that’s been in my life for several years. Longer than the dreams have been happening by at least one year or more.

Nyctophilia Raven Even weirder – I’m less stressed, I’m happier, than I’ve EVER been before.

RH Just finished “BigBrotherMachine” and, so far, all of them have trust as a linking thread. People who should’ve been trustworthy, husbands, cops, a fellow rebel…but they aren’t. There’s more to it, I just haven’t spotted it, yet.

RH BBM is missing a psychotic type character. Something is missing from your memories of that dream, I think. I’m going to keep thinking on this, but right now, I feel as if you’re being warned of something, something you can prevent, maybe? If you remember anything more about the Big Brother Machine dream sequence, let me know. I’d ask you to try and dream it again, with your husband watching over you, but I know how traumatic these types of dreams can be. Also, try to look in you memory for shiny things that stand out over all the other things in the dreams, not just the Lion and Wolf in the one dream.

Nyctophilia Raven Big Brother Machine is missing a lot because I never wrote that one down, so a year later, I’m having to dredge it up in bits and pieces. I honestly don’t remember it all anymore. I think the “world government” and its policing force is the psychotic in that dream though. The depths of control I remember feeling subject to by the world government in that dream was very, VERY Orwellian.

Nyctophilia Raven Amea was shiny. She had a light inside her – not one you could see with your eyes, but you couldn’t help but feel it was there.

Nyctophilia Raven I don’t remember anything shiny from the cop dream. Big brother machine, everything was very sepia-toned.

Nyctophilia Raven Also… you might be right about trust being the theme… I don’t have any. It’s a huge issue for me.

RH Ah, perhaps the dreams are trying to warn you about that lack of trust. It’s very possible that your subconscious is trying to show you that your feelings on trust could attract into your life the very thing you are trying to avoid/fear, distrustful people. You trusted in Amea, and she in you, in the one dream. In the Wolf/Lion dream, I think your trust was placed in the wrong people and you were so focused on the journey and the boredom that you failed to realize the pursuers were your rescuers. It has a ring of “The Trail of Tears” to it. If you had trusted Scott to deal with the man leaving your house with the gun, you would have gotten the answers you needed and not wound up shot. There’s just too much missing to properly speculate on the BBM dream, maybe you shouldn’t have trusted yourselves to remain concealed within a civilization gone made. Perhaps, you should’ve hidden within nature and put your trust in the land, rather than the people who eventually reported you to the security forces?

Nyctophilia Raven That… actually sounds… logical. Huh. You’re good at this! Thank you. I’ve been trying to work on my trust issues, but… maybe I need a little help.

Nyctophilia Raven Do you mind if I copy this convo into my blog so I can share it with someone who is in a position to help me with this particular issue?

RH As a child, I was very good at…’reading’ the emotions of the people around me. It was disturbing to me in large groups, couldn’t keep a handle on my emotional state. Some of that that I lost in childhood seems to have been returning these past few years.

RH I don’t mind, at all.

Nyctophilia Raven I had that same issue – only mine never went away… it’s probably where most of my trust issues actually stem from, tbh. And thank you.

RH Thank you, you are the one sharing yourself through your dreams, m’lady.

Nyctophilia Raven I didn’t really have a choice… I needed to write these down… especially the last one. I couldn’t leave it in my head, it was doing to much damage there.

Nyctophilia Raven Better out than in.

RH Well, I hope our conversation helps some.

Nyctophilia Raven It did.  Thank you.

RH You’re most welcome.

Recurring

Over the past year, I’ve started to have a recurring dream theme. I’ve decided that I need to record those dreams here, in the order they occur. I’m looking for patterns… looking for answers… looking for… something to make these experiences, so vivid, so realistic, so shocking, have meaning.

I don’t recommend, if you are uncomfortable with death, violence, or guns, that you read any of these. They’re extremely traumatic for me to experience, and that will come through the writing. Be careful that you don’t get the backlash.

Also, you will notice that the dreams are dated before this entry. That’s because I backdated the posts to the date and time they occurred, to keep track of how often this theme is recurring.

Amea

This was a warmer world than ours. South America was still a Spanish colony.

I was hired as a lady’s companion for Amea by her husband. I remember, she was newly wed, and she was beautiful – full of light, vivacious, sparks. You couldn’t help but love her.

No one could… but him.

There was something about Amea that made him want to break her… and there was a streak of… methodical cruelty in him that showed me from the beginning, he was a pro – he’d done this before.

I’ve always said that beatings aren’t nearly so bad as psychological warfare, and I’ve always been right. This was no different. The bruises, she could cover, and they would heal… but the things he did to her head were what began to kill the woman I grew to love.

One morning I came into her bedroom to help her plan her day, and I saw bruises on her neck and stomach. They were worse than I’d ever seen before. She looked like a broken, defeated flower, wilting in the heat. We locked eyes, and without a single word spoken we knew we were running.

A week later, we were outside at a bistro in town, a little cantina. She was drinking strong coffee, black and rich. I was shooting tequila. She didn’t take her cardigan off. Casually, she looked at me and said, “He’s going to Rio tonight. He’ll be gone for a week this time.” I nodded. We said nothing more, and listened to the birds and the vendors hawking their wares in the market.

That night, I helped her pack a bag – the size of a child’s backpack, with a few essentials. We left with nothing but the clothes we wore. We climbed out her window… she nearly slipped and fell. I clutched her hand until she got her feet under her again…

A year later, we had new names, we were a new class, we had new jobs, new careers. Her light was back. Oh, I loved her. She had the most beautiful eyes, her hair was like silk, and her skin was soft as rabbit fur. She had a laugh that turned heads, and she SHINED. We were in North America. She came home from her work to tell me, she’d finally done it – she’d gotten the promotion. We laughed, we planned a party. It felt like, finally, everything was OK – he hadn’t found us, and we were finally making it. We were free. It was our happily ever after.

They were doing maintenance on the elevator shaft that day. I heard a knock at the door, and went to answer. I didn’t look through the peep-hole, I just opened the door. The first thing I saw was the short-barrelled shotgun pointed at my face, barrel as wide as a roll of quarters. The second thing I saw was him. He was wearing maintenance coveralls, and on his back was a hiking insulated water bag.

He backed me into the apartment, while she shrank into a corner, trying not to be seen, frozen in terror. I didn’t look at her – I was so afraid, if I looked at her, he would, too… he’d see she was there, and he’d kill her.

He forced me into the next room, and had me open the closet door that backed up onto the elevator shaft for the building. He explained that in the bag on his back was a bomb, and he was going to force me to place that bomb onto the wall backing onto the elevator shaft, and if I didn’t, he was going to shoot her, and then me. My beautiful Amea.

He told me that after I had placed the bomb, he was going to shoot me… and then he was going to beat her with the gun, and leave… and then he was going to blow up the building.

I looked at that gun, I looked at that man. I thought of my beautiful Amea… and I began to talk. I told him of the seven years we had been in love, she and I. I told him about her thoughts and hopes and dreams. I told him where my hands had been. I talked about her birthmarks, and her freckles. I told him about the noises she made in the soft dark. I knew… if I could say the right things, he would lose control. He would shoot me, and the neighbors would hear him, and they would come running, and she might live. Such a very large barrel was sure to make a very loud sound – one that no one could ignore, could they? They might live… SHE might live… if I could just… make him lose control… make him shoot me.

I told him the most personal, intimate, beautiful things I could. I tormented him with our loving, taunted him to pull the trigger, tried to fill his head with hate for what we’d had without him, what I had taken from him. The whole time, I stared into his hate-filled eyes, but in my mind, I only saw her. She was the only face that mattered. I told him how I had loved her… and how he had failed. I never looked away, never looked at the last face I really wanted to see – I didn’t want him to take his eyes off me, I didn’t want him to look at her – I couldn’t risk it. So I stared into those eyes, and told him about what love really was.

The last thing I saw was his face, twisted up in rage, insane jealousy, purple with hate – the last thing I knew was I had won.

I went to the white place, after the darkness happened. In the white place were my ancestors – the ancestors of the woman I had been in the dream. They told me I did the right thing, that I’d done well – they welcomed me as I joined them.

I woke up hysterical.

I don’t know if she lived. My precious Amea. I don’t know if she’s OK… and I can’t stop thinking about her.

Nuclear Holocaust

Thousands of us are on a journey. There’s snow everywhere, and we’re walking the tracks. We have as much as we can carry with us. We’ve been walking for months, hoping the leaders in front know where we’re going, because we don’t.

Behind me is a cart with a lion and a silver wolf in it.

Some bad guys are disturbing the back of the train of people – so the person who’s bringing the wolf and the lion lets them out the back of the cart to hunt the bad guys. We hear two shots. We know that the lion and the wolf are dead, and that they failed to protect us.

We get to the next junction stop, and I’m ordered to go back and confirm that we have traitors in our group, by walking back down the tracks to see the bodies of the lion and the wolf. I really don’t want to, but someone has to, so I go backwards even though I know it’s not right… I get lost and somehow get on the wrong set of tracks, even though I never left the original set we’d been walking on.

However, I do end up managing to see the bodies of the lion and the wolf.

I begin to run back towards the junction, bad guys chasing me. I get to the end of the wrong tracks, and leap the fence, plowing through the deep snow back onto the right tracks. There are people there to back me up.

I get back to the junction, and report to the people in charge exactly what I’d seen. We move on.

Another day on the tracks, and we pass through a town. I’m not sure if it’s an old abandoned town, or if the company has just built it for habitation, but there are all kinds of stores, and I’m totally not interested in any of them. I just want to get where I’m going and the stores all seem just a little ridiculous to me.

We get to another junction stop, and as I’m going to the end of the junction building to wait near the tracks for the next day, I’m walking with a woman who wants to take me shopping. I’m like, “What for?” She says I need more money, but I don’t understand why. I don’t need money… I need to get where I’m going. Money just seems like a distraction, a waste of time.

I ignore her silliness and go wait by the gates. A big guy comes by, and he tells us all to move out of the hallway. He’s… there’s something about him that makes me nervous. I move out of his way. He smells… chemical, but sweet? As I’m leaving the hallway, my ex, Scott (the heroin addict) tells me… “When you pass him again, smell him. He smells like Meth… don’t listen to him. Run.”

As I pass the guy, I do smell him again… and Scott was right, he smells like Meth. I turn in shock, and I say, “You smell like Meth! I didn’t know you were doing Meth! WHY? How long!?” He grins, and says, “Fuck yeah I’m on Meth. I’ve been on it for months. It feels GREAT!” And then he pulls out two large silver guns.

Both of the barrels are at LEAST a foot long, the guns are that HUGE… and I turn and start to run, saying, “Nonononono,” and he laughs and says, “Fuck YES.” And then he shoots me, and it hits me in my lower left side, and exits my upper right side of my body, but I can feel the impact rippling through my entire body like a rock thrown in a bucket of water making ripples in the liquid, only I’m the liquid… Everything goes dark…Then I’m awake.

WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE FREAKING GUNS!?!?!

NOTES:

The lion was gold and the wolf was silver, so I would assume it had something to do with solar and lunar stuff, or male and female aspects… but I dunno. I wasn’t cold. The snow was EVERYWHERE, the world was white, except for the black of the tracks, and the dark of the empty trees. Everyone was wearing dull colors. The only reason I noticed that person’s animals at all was because they were so shiny among all the dull. Lots of other people had dogs and goats etc with them… but those animals were dull, too.

The entire dream, except for the end, just felt like a very long, arduous trial that I was mostly bored through and tired. I just wanted it over… but… um… not completely like that. And the dream felt really… unfinished. Like… OK, I’m going somewhere, it’s a pain in the ass to get there, and I have no actual idea where I’m going, I’m not leading, I’m following, and I have no idea who I’m following, but they keep ordering me to do shit that puts me in danger and honestly is another pointless pain in the ass and I just want this over.

Hubby came home early after this one. Apparently at 9:30 this morning, he had a sudden, very sharp, actually excruciating pain in his side… exactly where I got shot.

He didn’t know why until I told him about the dream.

When he got home, I described what we’d been shot with. He had me look up a few things. When I had a panic attack, we knew we’d found the right gun.

This morning, I was shot with a 44 Automag Desert Eagle in my sleep.

I do not recommend this activity at ALL.

I’m going back to bed. In my husband’s arms. And I’m going to stare at the walls for awhile.

Bullet Shock

This dream occurred before I moved out of my smaller apartment downstairs, but years after Scott and I had separated – Robin had moved in, and we were talking marriage, though not engaged yet. In the dream, I’ve never met Robin, and I’m married to Scott.

 

 

I made the mistake of taking a nap.

“I know, May. I wish I could be there to help you pack,” I say into the phone as I hang up another shirt. My hands move automatically, as I remote-view my friend, all the way on the other coast. I watch her tape up another box, worry on her pale face, her hands shaking, her cheeks damp.

“I’m just… so afraid I’ll be next. I never saw this coming… never thought he’d become this person.” Even though she can’t see me, I shrug… I always knew he was a psychopath. It was only a matter of time before he started killing people… but that’s not something you tell your best friend on their wedding day, or any other day for that matter, about their husband. Again, I keep my mouth shut, and let her get it off her chest. “He killed again last night. The cops were here this morning to tell me… he’s moving so fast they can’t track him anymore.”

That makes me shiver a little… but I comfort myself with the knowledge that they always slip in the end. “I’m sorry your husband is a serial killer, May. I really am. Maybe tonight, nothing will happen. You’re seeing the lawyer this afternoon… it’ll be over soon.” The police have been hushing things up, though – I know he doesn’t just want to hurt another girl. I know that he wants to find where the cops are hiding May… and I know he wants everyone to know what he can do… he loves it when he can break your head wide open and roll in your psychological entrails… he’s THAT kind of predator… the social mind of their town is just another toy for him to break.

I hear someone shouting in the background for another box through the phone, and asking whether or not May wants her winter shirts packed. “Is that Bessie?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks so much for sending her… she’s been taking really good care of me,” she replies.

Again I shrug… I don’t know why I do that… shrug when on the phone… just because I can see what’s going on around you when we’re talking on the phone doesn’t mean you can see me, too… “No problem. There’s no one I trust more.” Bessie is exactly who I want to be when I grow up. She’s wild, and she says what she wants, she always tells you what she thinks. She’s not afraid of anything. She’s strong, and stubborn, and if anyone can keep May going through this other than me, it’s Bessie.

I hear a guy talking in the bedroom – it’s a voice I don’t recognize. “You’re in good hands there, love. Listen… I’ve got to go. There’s someone in the house. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.” We hang up.

I finish folding and hanging up the last of the laundry, and step out of the closet. Scott is lying on the bed, on the covers. All the curtains are open. There’s a man I don’t recognize there – a cop – he’s in a shorts and short-sleeves uniform of grey cloth, and he has a badge, and a .22 rifle. My awareness spreads, as I watch him say something to Scott, and he throws some change on the bed. Scott knows all the cops, and they trade laughs. He’s searched our apartment. There are other cops searching other apartments. The security doors into the building are wide open, so the cops won’t have to be buzzed in every time they go out for something – and everybody’s front doors are open, too.

I don’t know what they’re looking for… and… there’s a strange man in my house with a gun.

For a moment, I’m silent, stunned… I watch the cop walk out of the bedroom, around the corner, and out my wide-open front door… and I’d have been fine if I’d have just kept my mouth shut. But… I couldn’t. It was a gun. He brought a GUN into MY HOUSE.

I lost my freaking mind.

“Who are you, and why are you in my house? Why did you bring a gun into my house? WHO ARE YOU AND WHY DID YOU BRING A GUN INTO MY HOUSE? TAKE YOUR GUN AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!” I scream at his retreating back…

Scott starts to sit up, he reaches towards me, fright on his face, words of hesitation in his mouth…

But it’s too late.

The cop pops back around the corner… levels the .22 rifle at me… Pulls the trigger…

There’s a loud bang.

Something hits my throat.

The world

Goes

Black…

And then I’m wide awake… and there’s a lump in my throat.

Big Brother Machine

This world was yellow. It also had a single global government, and a police force that dressed in what looked like all black slick leather and black motorcycle helmets. They carried machine guns, also black, made from some polycarbonate plastic blend. Lightweight, no recoil, a hell of a punch. Reminds me a bit of the M-16 Colt Light Machine Gun.

A guy, friend of mine, and I were part of a resistance to the world government. We got found out. We ran – the Underground Railroad was alive and well. Ended up in South America, living in a Tenement. Did OK, shitty jobs, keeping our heads down, for a few weeks… until somehow, he got caught.  He led them straight back to our apartment.

Next thing I know, they’ve gassed us, and we’re up against the wall, arms and legs spread wide, palms and faces against the walls, can’t see what they’re doing behind us. He makes an idiot mistake, and they shoot us both. Everything goes black. I wake up.

This dream happened awhile ago, so I can’t remember it very well, anymore. Just broad strokes. I remember the colors, very vividly, and the smells. The world was VERY real.