Death and dreams
"They" say that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. I know that not to be true. Twice in my late teens I died in my dreams. In one, one of my few black and white dreams, I was the victim of a drive-by beheading. Yes, you read that correctly. I got to see my severed head and slumped body lying in a ditch on one of the Valley roads. In the second one I was shot and could taste the metallic blood in my mouth and feel my lungs filling up with fluid as breathing became shorter and harder. Those dreams were not scary and happened well over 10 years ago.
Last night I had another strange death dream. I was in an apartment and someone strange, someone who shouldn't have been there, was in the apartment as well. He had a gun and shot the man in front of him, turned and shot the person to his side, and then shot me, just below my collar bone, dead center. I slumped to the ground and he shot me in the small of my back. I could feel the warm, sticky, viscous blood seeping from my body, pooling around me as I lay face first on the carpet. We are not entirely dead. I wonder if someone has a cell phone they can reach to call 911. Help must come quickly. We know we are dying with every breath. The door opens and a man and woman and the strange shadowy third, like the being that shot us, enter. They take one of the men outside and do something horrible to him involving a blow torch. They set him on fire. I am put on a dolly and trucked upstairs. I notice on the hallway floor the shiniest sharpest butcher knife I have ever seen in my life. In the bathroom the woman begins to undress me. Somehow I can stand. I am dressed in overalls and layers and layers of clothes; I am reminded of Halloweens as a kid when I would be triple layered: clothes, snowsuit, costume. I ask the woman if she is here to put mercifully put us out of our misery or if she has a weird kink. She smiles at me as she reaches the naked and unstained flesh of my belly. She says it is a shame I have to die.
I wake. Even my subconcious knows this is too disturbing. I do not want to know what would have happened next.
Last night I had another strange death dream. I was in an apartment and someone strange, someone who shouldn't have been there, was in the apartment as well. He had a gun and shot the man in front of him, turned and shot the person to his side, and then shot me, just below my collar bone, dead center. I slumped to the ground and he shot me in the small of my back. I could feel the warm, sticky, viscous blood seeping from my body, pooling around me as I lay face first on the carpet. We are not entirely dead. I wonder if someone has a cell phone they can reach to call 911. Help must come quickly. We know we are dying with every breath. The door opens and a man and woman and the strange shadowy third, like the being that shot us, enter. They take one of the men outside and do something horrible to him involving a blow torch. They set him on fire. I am put on a dolly and trucked upstairs. I notice on the hallway floor the shiniest sharpest butcher knife I have ever seen in my life. In the bathroom the woman begins to undress me. Somehow I can stand. I am dressed in overalls and layers and layers of clothes; I am reminded of Halloweens as a kid when I would be triple layered: clothes, snowsuit, costume. I ask the woman if she is here to put mercifully put us out of our misery or if she has a weird kink. She smiles at me as she reaches the naked and unstained flesh of my belly. She says it is a shame I have to die.
I wake. Even my subconcious knows this is too disturbing. I do not want to know what would have happened next.