Troubling dreams.
In this dream, I was standing in a room that didn't know if it wanted to be a garage or house.
In front of me is my dealer Danny. I am pointing a gun to his head. I think he has betrayed me somehow, something to do with weed/ money/ secrecy. I shoot him, point blank. He falls with a sudden dumb thud onto the floor.
One of my friends, Aaron, witnesses it. He opens his mouth in protest. He doesn't do drugs, but is shocked that I just killed Danny. I point the gun at Aaron, not wanting to shoot him, but the adrenaline's spiraling through my arms and head like white fire and I'm drunk on it. I'm drunk on it, and it feels good to depress the trigger and feel the projectile of the bullet pushing back on my hand. I see a dark red spot bloom on his forehead. Instantly I regret it, but my heart's still racing with the thrill of it.
The rest of the dream, I am freaking out. Tearing my hair, asking my boyfriend what we should do with the bodies. Until we can think of what to do, we put them in the garage. "They're going to start to stink soon," I say in a worried voice. "The neighbors will know."
I start contemplating different schemes, like chopping them up, fitting their pieces into different coolers and putting sodas and beers in with them. That way, when I drive to the desert to bury them it looks like we're having a picnic. And what a picnic, folks!
I consider dumping them into the ocean like Big Pussy from the Sopranos. But we have no boat and the beach, of course, is always crowded.
I consider turning myself in, but don't.
The whole time, these murders weigh heavily upon my heart. One minute there, the next gone. Their girlfriends calling, not knowing they're dead. The fact that I know before anyone else does that they're dead feels like a huge responsibility. It's always the newscasters and cops who should know, not me.
I wake up from this dream clutching my sheets, extremely grateful that this was all just a dream. That awful feeling of power and guilt... was so vivid and horrible.
In front of me is my dealer Danny. I am pointing a gun to his head. I think he has betrayed me somehow, something to do with weed/ money/ secrecy. I shoot him, point blank. He falls with a sudden dumb thud onto the floor.
One of my friends, Aaron, witnesses it. He opens his mouth in protest. He doesn't do drugs, but is shocked that I just killed Danny. I point the gun at Aaron, not wanting to shoot him, but the adrenaline's spiraling through my arms and head like white fire and I'm drunk on it. I'm drunk on it, and it feels good to depress the trigger and feel the projectile of the bullet pushing back on my hand. I see a dark red spot bloom on his forehead. Instantly I regret it, but my heart's still racing with the thrill of it.
The rest of the dream, I am freaking out. Tearing my hair, asking my boyfriend what we should do with the bodies. Until we can think of what to do, we put them in the garage. "They're going to start to stink soon," I say in a worried voice. "The neighbors will know."
I start contemplating different schemes, like chopping them up, fitting their pieces into different coolers and putting sodas and beers in with them. That way, when I drive to the desert to bury them it looks like we're having a picnic. And what a picnic, folks!
I consider dumping them into the ocean like Big Pussy from the Sopranos. But we have no boat and the beach, of course, is always crowded.
I consider turning myself in, but don't.
The whole time, these murders weigh heavily upon my heart. One minute there, the next gone. Their girlfriends calling, not knowing they're dead. The fact that I know before anyone else does that they're dead feels like a huge responsibility. It's always the newscasters and cops who should know, not me.
I wake up from this dream clutching my sheets, extremely grateful that this was all just a dream. That awful feeling of power and guilt... was so vivid and horrible.