Indian Boy
This morning I woke from a strange and terrible dream. I’ll skip the majority of it and get to the weird ending…
I was walking through a very long, narrow, high-ceilinged hallway at my elementary school. It was very quiet, like a library, except for the sound of my 2nd grade teacher’s footsteps. It was actually my 7th grade teacher’s persona, but my 2nd grade teacher’s body. They look similar… In my coat pocket was a 16 inch ribbed knife. Earlier in the dream I was getting attacked by other students (with knives!) and so I decided I better start carrying one on me just in case. I told Mrs. Smith that I had a knife on me and said I’d better give it to her. She said, “No, hang on to it. You’ll probably need it.” And she looked around, as if something or somebody were watching.
I walked into a second grade class, thinking it was where the older kids on tour were going to be. That was not the case. My mom and her fourth son who (2nd grader) doesn’t exist in real life were in class. She waved me over and we watched. There was a parent/student panel discussion in which the principal and other teachers acted like the president, vice president, SOS, etc. It phased me as kind of weird that a mock press conference was being acted out in a 2nd grade classroom, but I had other things to worry about. My brother, Cameron (real life brother), busted open the door and said, “Kyle! We’re upstairs, you better come quick before something happens!” My stomach dropped. I thought my peers were at each other. I waited until the end of the panel discussion, as I did not want to be rude, and a little girl started saying very bizarre things - about terrorists and death and secrets to come at the end of the school year. Today was their last day.
*BAM BAM BAM* I hear… it was just my imagination though. Some of the kids were putting up their chairs and preparing to go home. I talked with one of the parents, talked with my mom, and insisted I go find my brother. I ran up the stairs and on the ground on the third floor was this Indian boy-I say his ethnicity because my elementary school was EXTREMELY diverse. The classroom I was in was evenly mixed, with no dominant color or class. I liked that very much…. Anyway, he looked beaten and fatigued. I went to go help him and he said, “Stop, no. I have to go.” He showed me his referral slip to the main office. He was in trouble. He didn’t seem like a troublemaker, so I insisted he come with me instead. I was having a very bad feeling in my stomach at this point. Everything was very strange.
As I went to go grab, I made haste, and in reaching for him, accidentally knocked him off the railing, causing him to fall three stories to the ground. OH MY FREAKING GOD! What had I done!?!?! Immediately, I ran to the bottom. A man was carrying him into the bathroom. It didn’t look like he would have been his father, and I followed him. I asked if he was still alive, if he thought he would be okay, what I could do to help. The man snickered hellishly and said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s already begun.”
*BAM BAM BAM* This time was for real! My persona changed. I WAS the boy that fell from the 3rd floor. I was also Kyle, but we were two people in one. There was this Caucasian man rounding people together, he seemed friendly, assuring us that if it were our time, we would stand by each other. My understanding from the whispers across the room was that we were under attack by terrorists and that two bombs were planted in the school. I thought it had to be the Chinese kids, who were the ones teaming up with knives to get me in the beginning and warned they’d get me and anyone who stood in there way. But then why would they come to me and apologize? And give me their knives? That didn’t make sense… it wasn’t them.
After a while, the White man called for all Christians. “Christians, here! The rest, stay back!” This time he was much more directive than encouraging in the way he addressed us. There of course was a split in the room, and he said, “If we’re going to die, we will die together. We are the ones made victim here. It’s time we pray until death.” It was twisted, but it was somewhat logical, pray to God before dying.
They began singing this song, as the rest of just watched. I recognized it from church, but I was a little bothered that he split the group. And instead of spreading hope, he assured us of our pending death. Two older women started tap dancing to the gospel song, and so naturally I ran to put mine on and joined them. I didn’t want them to think I was an “other.” Didn’t really do anything. The guy explained that there were gunmen outside and snipers in helicopters, how we should stay inside and wait until the bombs go off. He also kept talking about “the time.”
“It is our time… Christians, we must act until it is time… let us embrace our time.”
We were outside in the kindergarten playground. It looked much like a small amphitheater though, and the stage was filled with hay-just tons and tons of hay. The “Christians” were dressed in robes of old times. We were all in the pit of hay, as we watched their reenactment of Jesus’ birth. “Why are they performing the Nativity scene?” I thought. They just continued.
The Indian boy and I were scrambling to find a way out. We did not like what was going on… Sometimes we were on person, but when we interacted we were two separate people… I saw some of the performers leave! They walked right out of the gates! And that guy was talking to them… what the heck was going on!? I saw the few of them get shot and fall to the ground. Then the twist… The “Christian” leader pulled out a pistol, shot a few in the air and said we all had time before the end, and not to worry. The ladies who were tap dancing were let go; they were not shot. A few others were let go without harm as well.
I’ve always prepared for a hostage situation like this and was ready for whatever I had to do. We were held for another thirty minutes, and the parents and students were just taking this guy’s suggestions. I couldn’t believe it! It was like 60 to 1! I kept circling around the outside, as was the guy with the pistol. I tried to stay on the outside, in case I had the chance to sneak for his gun and take the gunman out. Never had the right chance. Before this, I was the boy. The edge of the upper level had about a foot and a half acting as a balcony. We went underneath and he agreed to stay under the hay, not to make a noise whatever happened, not to talk to any kids or help anyone until it was over. He stayed. I stayed. I was the boy.
This next part was like a trip. My persona was the boy’s, but I also saw flashes of people getting fired at. I saw images of Jesus on the cross… pleas from the people about to go out. This guy was sick-he gave people last requests and laughed at them before shooting. He’d talk about “the Son” and how none of this mattered anyway. It was so weird.
A little second grade boy and his two friends were standing above. A father of a student was shot in front of me. “There are people under the hay,” the little boy said of the falling dead. He pointed at someone near me, “See!” I could not believe how naïve this kid was. He kept calling people out and they’d get shot. Right after the girls near me were shot and killed, “Is that one there?” He meant me. The man with the pistol stood above me, shot through the floor and into the front of my head. I died instantly, without pain. I felt the blood though, and it was very little… hm…
Persona’s switched, as a sort of out of body experience from death, separated the boy and I. I was Kyle Goodall, scheming as ever to get this guy to stop.
There were bonfires near the gates, the dead spread out and beneath the hay. I was still alive and managed to just walked around the other side of the amphitheater, as I watched the man and his family eat make s’mores. I was livid and very concerned that there were not others like him going off in the world killing schools of people. He let me live because I retorted, “it was not my time,” because I was smart, he said. He liked me, and assured me that I was going to die like the rest. I was deeply disturbed and could not believe this guy was massacring a school of children and their parents in the name of anything righteous.
While the man and his family were eating, I snuck to the Indian boy. I held his body and just cried. He wasn’t dead though. He was still very alive in my mind. The bullet skinned his forehead. He just pretended to be dead. He opened his eyes, and looked into mine. He squeezed his lips together as if to acknowledge me, and closed his eyes shut. I took him out of the hay, carrying his limp body to some rock formations. This whole time it was like I was in Halo, the outside scenery was beautiful. It was just in this gate that was Hell. I set him down, hugging him, and said I’d be back, not to move, and that I would not let anything happen.
The guy and his bitch wife were so nonchalant about this. I walked down and asked what she was doing. She pulled out lighter fluid and started squeezing it onto the hay. There were lots of people still alive and wounded in there! I think the guy did this on purpose… I don’t know though, he might have just been a sucky shot.
This whole night, “Black Dirt” by Seawolf was playing over and over in my head. I took the lighter fluid from her and started spraying the rest of the stage. I jumped in the hay and made it perfect. She already lit her part. I was helping her spread the fire.
Here on the ground
I cannot hear a sound
Just a strong and steady rain
Getting louder as you sing
It may be true that I lied
I broke a promise that I tried
But my heart no longer beats
My blood makes black dirt under your feet
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
I could feel my face grow pale
Sick with fear my senses fail
And as the light fades from my eyes
I smile but don't know why
Legs are growing to the heat of the sun
And my heart no longer beats
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
Here on the ground I lie
I cannot hear a sound as I die
It may be true that I lied
Broke a promise that I tried
But my heart no longer beats
And when you kill you'll only leave
Black dirt under your feet
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
It was 9am now. The guy and his bitch wife were talking. They were getting ready to leave; said there job was done. “What makes you a Christian?” I asked the man.
“I do what’s right, and He guides me.”
“YOU FREAKING KILLED!”
“What… like 50 or 60. God’s plan is more than that.”
Something changed in me and I was compassionate for his wife. I understood her for some reason. Maybe she let me live after I set flames to the hay.
I was becoming more conscious, waking up, so the dream started getting fuzzy. Before I left to wake up, I tried getting out “When Religion Becomes Evil by Charles Kimball,” but I couldn’t make sound.
I was walking through a very long, narrow, high-ceilinged hallway at my elementary school. It was very quiet, like a library, except for the sound of my 2nd grade teacher’s footsteps. It was actually my 7th grade teacher’s persona, but my 2nd grade teacher’s body. They look similar… In my coat pocket was a 16 inch ribbed knife. Earlier in the dream I was getting attacked by other students (with knives!) and so I decided I better start carrying one on me just in case. I told Mrs. Smith that I had a knife on me and said I’d better give it to her. She said, “No, hang on to it. You’ll probably need it.” And she looked around, as if something or somebody were watching.
I walked into a second grade class, thinking it was where the older kids on tour were going to be. That was not the case. My mom and her fourth son who (2nd grader) doesn’t exist in real life were in class. She waved me over and we watched. There was a parent/student panel discussion in which the principal and other teachers acted like the president, vice president, SOS, etc. It phased me as kind of weird that a mock press conference was being acted out in a 2nd grade classroom, but I had other things to worry about. My brother, Cameron (real life brother), busted open the door and said, “Kyle! We’re upstairs, you better come quick before something happens!” My stomach dropped. I thought my peers were at each other. I waited until the end of the panel discussion, as I did not want to be rude, and a little girl started saying very bizarre things - about terrorists and death and secrets to come at the end of the school year. Today was their last day.
*BAM BAM BAM* I hear… it was just my imagination though. Some of the kids were putting up their chairs and preparing to go home. I talked with one of the parents, talked with my mom, and insisted I go find my brother. I ran up the stairs and on the ground on the third floor was this Indian boy-I say his ethnicity because my elementary school was EXTREMELY diverse. The classroom I was in was evenly mixed, with no dominant color or class. I liked that very much…. Anyway, he looked beaten and fatigued. I went to go help him and he said, “Stop, no. I have to go.” He showed me his referral slip to the main office. He was in trouble. He didn’t seem like a troublemaker, so I insisted he come with me instead. I was having a very bad feeling in my stomach at this point. Everything was very strange.
As I went to go grab, I made haste, and in reaching for him, accidentally knocked him off the railing, causing him to fall three stories to the ground. OH MY FREAKING GOD! What had I done!?!?! Immediately, I ran to the bottom. A man was carrying him into the bathroom. It didn’t look like he would have been his father, and I followed him. I asked if he was still alive, if he thought he would be okay, what I could do to help. The man snickered hellishly and said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s already begun.”
*BAM BAM BAM* This time was for real! My persona changed. I WAS the boy that fell from the 3rd floor. I was also Kyle, but we were two people in one. There was this Caucasian man rounding people together, he seemed friendly, assuring us that if it were our time, we would stand by each other. My understanding from the whispers across the room was that we were under attack by terrorists and that two bombs were planted in the school. I thought it had to be the Chinese kids, who were the ones teaming up with knives to get me in the beginning and warned they’d get me and anyone who stood in there way. But then why would they come to me and apologize? And give me their knives? That didn’t make sense… it wasn’t them.
After a while, the White man called for all Christians. “Christians, here! The rest, stay back!” This time he was much more directive than encouraging in the way he addressed us. There of course was a split in the room, and he said, “If we’re going to die, we will die together. We are the ones made victim here. It’s time we pray until death.” It was twisted, but it was somewhat logical, pray to God before dying.
They began singing this song, as the rest of just watched. I recognized it from church, but I was a little bothered that he split the group. And instead of spreading hope, he assured us of our pending death. Two older women started tap dancing to the gospel song, and so naturally I ran to put mine on and joined them. I didn’t want them to think I was an “other.” Didn’t really do anything. The guy explained that there were gunmen outside and snipers in helicopters, how we should stay inside and wait until the bombs go off. He also kept talking about “the time.”
“It is our time… Christians, we must act until it is time… let us embrace our time.”
We were outside in the kindergarten playground. It looked much like a small amphitheater though, and the stage was filled with hay-just tons and tons of hay. The “Christians” were dressed in robes of old times. We were all in the pit of hay, as we watched their reenactment of Jesus’ birth. “Why are they performing the Nativity scene?” I thought. They just continued.
The Indian boy and I were scrambling to find a way out. We did not like what was going on… Sometimes we were on person, but when we interacted we were two separate people… I saw some of the performers leave! They walked right out of the gates! And that guy was talking to them… what the heck was going on!? I saw the few of them get shot and fall to the ground. Then the twist… The “Christian” leader pulled out a pistol, shot a few in the air and said we all had time before the end, and not to worry. The ladies who were tap dancing were let go; they were not shot. A few others were let go without harm as well.
I’ve always prepared for a hostage situation like this and was ready for whatever I had to do. We were held for another thirty minutes, and the parents and students were just taking this guy’s suggestions. I couldn’t believe it! It was like 60 to 1! I kept circling around the outside, as was the guy with the pistol. I tried to stay on the outside, in case I had the chance to sneak for his gun and take the gunman out. Never had the right chance. Before this, I was the boy. The edge of the upper level had about a foot and a half acting as a balcony. We went underneath and he agreed to stay under the hay, not to make a noise whatever happened, not to talk to any kids or help anyone until it was over. He stayed. I stayed. I was the boy.
This next part was like a trip. My persona was the boy’s, but I also saw flashes of people getting fired at. I saw images of Jesus on the cross… pleas from the people about to go out. This guy was sick-he gave people last requests and laughed at them before shooting. He’d talk about “the Son” and how none of this mattered anyway. It was so weird.
A little second grade boy and his two friends were standing above. A father of a student was shot in front of me. “There are people under the hay,” the little boy said of the falling dead. He pointed at someone near me, “See!” I could not believe how naïve this kid was. He kept calling people out and they’d get shot. Right after the girls near me were shot and killed, “Is that one there?” He meant me. The man with the pistol stood above me, shot through the floor and into the front of my head. I died instantly, without pain. I felt the blood though, and it was very little… hm…
Persona’s switched, as a sort of out of body experience from death, separated the boy and I. I was Kyle Goodall, scheming as ever to get this guy to stop.
There were bonfires near the gates, the dead spread out and beneath the hay. I was still alive and managed to just walked around the other side of the amphitheater, as I watched the man and his family eat make s’mores. I was livid and very concerned that there were not others like him going off in the world killing schools of people. He let me live because I retorted, “it was not my time,” because I was smart, he said. He liked me, and assured me that I was going to die like the rest. I was deeply disturbed and could not believe this guy was massacring a school of children and their parents in the name of anything righteous.
While the man and his family were eating, I snuck to the Indian boy. I held his body and just cried. He wasn’t dead though. He was still very alive in my mind. The bullet skinned his forehead. He just pretended to be dead. He opened his eyes, and looked into mine. He squeezed his lips together as if to acknowledge me, and closed his eyes shut. I took him out of the hay, carrying his limp body to some rock formations. This whole time it was like I was in Halo, the outside scenery was beautiful. It was just in this gate that was Hell. I set him down, hugging him, and said I’d be back, not to move, and that I would not let anything happen.
The guy and his bitch wife were so nonchalant about this. I walked down and asked what she was doing. She pulled out lighter fluid and started squeezing it onto the hay. There were lots of people still alive and wounded in there! I think the guy did this on purpose… I don’t know though, he might have just been a sucky shot.
This whole night, “Black Dirt” by Seawolf was playing over and over in my head. I took the lighter fluid from her and started spraying the rest of the stage. I jumped in the hay and made it perfect. She already lit her part. I was helping her spread the fire.
Here on the ground
I cannot hear a sound
Just a strong and steady rain
Getting louder as you sing
It may be true that I lied
I broke a promise that I tried
But my heart no longer beats
My blood makes black dirt under your feet
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
I could feel my face grow pale
Sick with fear my senses fail
And as the light fades from my eyes
I smile but don't know why
Legs are growing to the heat of the sun
And my heart no longer beats
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
Here on the ground I lie
I cannot hear a sound as I die
It may be true that I lied
Broke a promise that I tried
But my heart no longer beats
And when you kill you'll only leave
Black dirt under your feet
Black dirt will stain your feet
And when you walk
You'll leave black dirt in the street
It was 9am now. The guy and his bitch wife were talking. They were getting ready to leave; said there job was done. “What makes you a Christian?” I asked the man.
“I do what’s right, and He guides me.”
“YOU FREAKING KILLED!”
“What… like 50 or 60. God’s plan is more than that.”
Something changed in me and I was compassionate for his wife. I understood her for some reason. Maybe she let me live after I set flames to the hay.
I was becoming more conscious, waking up, so the dream started getting fuzzy. Before I left to wake up, I tried getting out “When Religion Becomes Evil by Charles Kimball,” but I couldn’t make sound.